


How Many Floors to Realize

by lazy_daze



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:28:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazy_daze/pseuds/lazy_daze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU from the end of It's A Terrible Life, in which Zachariah decides to keep stringing them along a little while longer, because damn if they aren't somewhat entertaining, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for fluffyllama in the spn_j2_xmas 2009 exchange. Using the prompt "Smith and Wesson as hunters out on the road" - with a slight touch of crack, which I hope she doesn't mind.
> 
> Huge thanks to rivers_bend for stepping up to do an awesome speedy beta-and-title job for me! Mwah!

**Title** : How Many Floors to Realize  
 **Pairing** : Sam/Dean (Smith/Wesson)  
 **Rating** : NC-17  
 **Wordcount** : ~26,700  
 **A/N** : Written for [](http://fluffyllama.livejournal.com/profile)[**fluffyllama**](http://fluffyllama.livejournal.com/) in the [](http://spn-j2-xmas.livejournal.com/profile)[**spn_j2_xmas**](http://spn-j2-xmas.livejournal.com/) 2009 exchange. Using the prompt "Smith and Wesson as hunters out on the road" - with a slight touch of crack, which I hope she doesn't mind. AU from the end of It's A Terrible Life, in which Zachariah decides to keep stringing them along a little while longer, because damn if they aren't somewhat entertaining, right?

Huge thanks to [](http://rivers-bend.livejournal.com/profile)[**rivers_bend**](http://rivers-bend.livejournal.com/) for stepping up to do an awesome speedy beta-and-title job for me! Mwah!

\--

"Dean, Dean, Dean." Mr. Adler shook his head, looking strangely amused.

Dean felt more than a little nonplussed. He'd been expecting -- well, possibly it was a little arrogant, but he'd been expecting more of a protest. _We can't lose you, Smith, you're our top performer! Such potential! You can't do this to our portfolios! You could've helped this company make it as the biggest structural iron corporation in the Midwest! Now what? You're going to leave us to slowly circle the drain until we go under? Think of all the jobs lost! The livelihoods!_ What can I do to make you stay _? Smith! You just can't do this to me! To Sandover!_

Okay, well, he was maybe getting a little ahead of himself -- his mother had always said he'd had an overactive imagination, though he supposed his fevered childhood insistence that there was a monster in the closet might not have actually been so far out. But damn it, he was pretty fucking good. He deserved a little protest for the work he'd put in. The sleepless nights, the stress, what this was doing to his _skin_.

He touched the corner of his eye lightly out of habit and watched Mr. Adler with a slight frown as the man said no more, just continued to smile in that slightly creepy way.

"Mr. Adler...?" tried Dean. "I mean -- I'm quitting. Leaving. To go do -- stupid things that are unstable and possibly insane and have no health insurance or 401K, and I'm more excited for it than I have been for any of my portfolio acquisitions. You know. _Quit-ting_." He enunciated carefully. Maybe Mr. Adler was going senile. He was getting on, and after so many years working here, maybe there was only so much strain the brain could take.

Mr. Adler tilted his head to the side and looked frankly assessing, for a moment, and then like a switch being pressed, his face smoothed out, alarmingly blank for a second, before he started to look angry. That, at least, was familiar.

"Fine, Smith," he hissed, standing up and tugging on his suit. "Get out! Now! You are terminated! See if you ever work in the corporate iron and steel sector ever again!"

"Right," said Dean, trying to keep his voice steady. He sort of hoped that was blustering and not a true threat. He did kind of need a fallback career if the ghost hunting didn't quite pan out how he was expecting -- not that his expectations could be called detailed or, you know, existent. At least it seemed Mr. Adler got the picture, as he threw Dean a scathing glance and stalked out. Dean couldn't shake the feeling something was still amusing him, but he didn't worry about it -- bosses were a strange species at the best of times, there was no point wasting mental energy on it when he could be using that to freak out about the fact he just _quit his stable, high-paying job_. In this economy!

Dean stood and picked up his briefcase, darted his eyes around to make sure no-one was lurking in the corners of his private office and watching as he swiped his executive silver Newton's Pendulum and stuffed it awkwardly in his suit jacket pocket -- he had a soft spot for that. He supposed the relevant paper work would get sent to his apartment. Dramatic quitting was all well and good, but there _were_ forms that really should be completed and filed. He'd have to make sure they hung around in the city at least a few days before they took off to -- wherever ghosts could be found. He ran a palm over his face. This was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever done. This was much more ridiculous than the raw vegetables diet, which after all had just made him weirdly _gassy_. This was illogical and dangerous and terrifying, and somehow his mouth kept pulling up into a reckless smile against his better judgment. He probably looked insane; he certainly felt it. What the fuck was he meant to do now?

He stepped tentatively out of his office and cleared his throat casually, even though no one was around. Right. He needed to be logical about this. He was going off hunting the supernatural with the tech support guy. So it made sense the first step was to find said tech support guy.

He got in the elevator and pressed the button to Wesson's floor, and tried to arrange himself casually as he stood, in case any of his colleagues came in, asked him why he was going to tech support. "Oh," he'd say, "just a little thing Mr. Adler wanted me to take care of in person. Can't say much more, you know how he is." He'd smirk a little, get Andrews jealous that he wasn't the one doing the top secret job -- but what was the point of an elaborate cover story for why he was visiting tech support when he'd just _quit_ and wouldn't see any of these people ever again after today? He rubbed a palm over his face again and stifled a slightly hysterical laugh, which was of course when the doors slid open and a gaggle of bemused looking yellow-shirts filed in. He squeezed past, face blank and definitely not going red.

He walked into a room full of cubicles and yellow shirts and the strange sensation of a hundred voices echoing " _Have you tried turning it off then back on again_?"

"Um," he said into the air, then shook his head and marched purposefully to the nearest cube rat. "Hi," he said, trying to look smooth and important and powerful, "I need to see Sam Wesson?"

The worker's eyes widened and her eyes slid a little further down her row, where an empty cubicle sat with a broken desk and a sad piece of tape stretched across it, fluttering slightly as someone walked by.

"He, ah," she said, "quit. Not two hours ago. Publicly and violently and -- quite dramatically."

That -- well, that sounded like Sam. Not that he knew Sam particularly well -- which made this whole thing even more insane -- but after that whole impassioned speech that made Dean feel all sorts of uncomfortable things, he figured the guy had a secret flair for the dramatic. If this whole hunting thing didn't work out, out least he'd have a back-up career in motivational speaking.

"Right," he said, not sure where to go next. Of course, detective work and using one's brain seemed to be what this whole hunting gig was about, so he may as well get in some practice. "Well, I'm from Management, and we have a few very important outstanding issues to clear up with Mr. Wesson. Please point me in the direction of the HR records for this department?" He looked at her steadily with a subtle yet hopefully intimidating threat of power in his eyes, and she swallowed.

She pointed a slightly unsteady finger down the room to the exit. "Second door on the right down the corridor."

Half an hour and a slightly shaken HR receptionist later, Dean Smith walked out of Sandover Bridge and Iron Inc -- hopefully for the last time -- holding a sheaf of paper with Sam Wesson's full address, contact details, employment history and resum é. Step one down. Now to actually find the guy.

\--

Castiel was standing solemnly in the middle of the corridor when Zachariah left Dean’s office, drawing an odd glance from Sharon as she zipped her way down to do some photocopying. She'd been doing an admirable job as Zachariah's -- or rather, Mr. Adler's -- assistant. Considering Zachariah mostly didn't do anything as Mr. Adler, it pretty much meant she was doing two jobs. From the way she took it all in stride, it seemed her previous boss hadn't been any better. Zachariah had gotten oddly fond of her -- she was alright, as humans went. Made a _mean_ cup of coffee. It was close to receiving Revelation.

"C'mon, Castiel, you could at least dress the part if you're going to wander in here and attempt to interfere in my plans. That wrinkled trenchcoat really isn't very Sandover."

Castiel glared at him. "This plan is ridiculous, and should not be continuing. Has he not just learned whatever lesson it was you were trying to impart? Why is he not Dean _Winchester_ again?"

Zachariah patted down his suit; if they did have to walk as humans in these ridiculous complicated _clothes_ , he at least intended to take pride in the fact he was much more well-put-together than Castiel. Humans reacted strongly to appearance, and right now Castiel exuded nothing of power and rather more of wrinkled bewilderment and impotent anger than Zachariah approved of.

"Now, now, Castiel, calm yourself. And get out of the way." He gestured at him impatiently, and nodded at Sharon as she hurried back up the corridor, sheaf of papers clutched in her hand. "I think there is more Dean can learn. It is not enough to decide he wants to do this, he needs to _experience_ it. The life. Remember that he is suited to it, not to this," he waved his hands around expansively, " _corporate_ business."

Castiel narrowed his eyes at Zachariah slightly; Zachariah would guess he was attempting to look suspicious of Zachariah's intent. Zachariah resisted the urge to ask if his vessel needed glasses.

"No, Zachariah. This is asinine; we need the Winchesters back on board and fully aware. This is not the time for games -- there is an apocalypse in the works!"

"Oh, the apocalypse can wait a while."

"No, it cannot. I refuse to stand by--"

Castiel made as if to walk down towards Dean's office.

"Castiel," said Zachariah, infusing just a little angelic tremor into his voice. The lights flickered and Castiel stopped. Zachariah looked around and switched them swiftly into his office with an echo of a flutter, and pointed a steady finger at Castiel. "Do not forget, _Castiel_ , that you are not making the rules here. You do not have the power. I am your superior. You well know I have ways of restraining you, and if you try and restore Dean's memories, I will."

Castiel stared at him. "Why? Just tell me this. Dean does not need to learn more of a lesson. Why continue with this, Zachariah?"

He didn't sound insubordinate any longer, more resigned, so Zachariah smiled at him indulgently. "Because I believe I am learning some of the human concept of _fun_ , in watching this unfold."

Castiel blinked at him. "Fun."

"You seem to like Dean version-Winchester, so you may not appreciate this, but I have watched him sneer and rebel and insult and blaspheme, and now -- now! This is Dean, violent, self-righteous, dicks-with-wings smart-mouth Dean _Winchester_ , fussing with his suit and worrying about his dieting schedule and fumbling his way around, helpless and directionless and unsure. I like this Dean."

"This is an exercise in _humiliation_?"

Now _that_ scandalized tone sounded like he'd been spending too much time with _Sam_ Winchester -- the boy with the demon blood and easily offended sensibilities. He would _never_ understand humans. "Get off -- what do they say? Off of your _high horse_ , Castiel. I'm keeping him out of harm's way, at least, aren't I? And he's not fretting about all those nasty things he did in Hell before you managed to get your hands on him, if he's fretting about health insurance. I would have thought you'd thank me for his reprieve, if you _care_ for this irritating human."

Castiel's mouth worked uselessly as if he was trying to decipher this logic and see if there was any real protest he could make. Zachariah smiled smugly.

"And -- what about Sam? Why involve him?"

"Oh, Sam," said Zachariah, dismissively. "Wherever Dean goes, he must, I suppose. He would just cause a real administrative nightmare if he was running around trying to rescue Dean if he had his memories back, and I can't be bothered wasting resources restraining him. And he has his part, of course, so they're both where I want them for now. Plus it seems Sam needs to be a part of whatever Dean ends up doing here. They do tend to gravitate towards each other."

"Such is family," said Castiel gravely, and Zachariah tried not to roll his eyes. Family was a pain in his angelic ass. Castiel nodded slowly, then looked at Zachariah. "So what now?"

"Oh, so now you're interested?"

"If you will not allow me to stop this, I may as well observe."

Zachariah sat down in his plush leather chair, and folded his hands behind his head. "That's up to them, I suppose."

\--

Sam lived in a third-floor apartment in the city, about four blocks west from Sandover, so Dean left his car in the Sandover parking garage for now and determinedly made his way over on foot. He bumped into someone coming out of a liquor store a block from Sam's address, and had a moment to think _c'mon, it's barely past noon!_ before he registered it was Sam, still in his yellow polo. They stumbled and steadied themselves and blinked at each other for a moment.

"Um," he said, and waved the papers in his hand like that would explain anything.

"Uh," said Sam, and gestured with the six pack of beer in his hand in a similar manner. "I, uh, quit, so. I figured I was allowed one night of celebrating before I figured out what the hell to do next. Then, "Wait," Sam said, looking around, "how -- why are you--?"

Dean waved the papers again. "I, well, I quit too, I got your address from HR, I was trying to find you--"

Sam laughed, once, bright and sudden, and it made Dean's mouth tug up reflexively. He needed to do something about this smile reflex, because smiling was not something he enjoyed happening without his say so.

"Creepy stalker," said Sam, except it sounded kind of affectionate.

Dean took offense anyway, in place of anything else he was meant to react with. "Well, come on! It was your fault I quit, all your, you know, _we should be doing something else, this isn't our lives, blah blah blah_. I quit with the intention to hunt ghosts with you, so finding _you_ after you fucked off seemed to be the most important part of that equation." He was still waving the damn papers in emphasis, crumpled in his hand, so he carefully brought his arms down and glared at Sam, then set to folding them and putting them in his briefcase.

Sam looked at him soberly, suddenly. "You serious, then? You quit, for real? You want to do this?"

"Well," said Dean, hoping he wasn't about to look rather foolish, "if you do. If you actually meant all that."

Sam grinned, a slow wide smile that made Dean feel weirdly proud of himself, like he'd made the right choice. "Of course I meant it. This it _it_ , man. What we're meant to be doing. You and me. Hunting down evil! Saving people!"

It definitely sounded a lot better than 'Regional Director of Sales and Marketing'. The most he'd ever saved before was a few thousand dollars off the cost of a new shipment of steel girders for a prestigious client, thanks to his powers of sweet-talking and ass-kissing to the manufacturers. Saving _people_ was a whole new thing.

He grinned back at Sam, his heart rate picking up like he'd just done five miles on the treadmill. "So -- when do we start?"

Sam's grin faltered a little. "I'm not -- not really sure. I mean, I doubt there's a, you know, craigslist for hauntings. Um. Research?" He glanced down at the six pack of beer he was still holding. "Research tomorrow, celebration tonight?"

"Oh, I don't -- I mean, I really can't, with the beer -- it's so full of carb--"

Sam gave him a look, and Dean felt both annoyed and kind of sheepish. And it had -- really been so long since he'd had a beer. That clean malty taste, the bubbles--

He coughed. "I mean, you know. Special occasion -- and it's a pretty physical job -- well, hopefully will be--"

"Great," Sam cut him off. "Let's drink."

\--

It turned out watching Ghostfacers videos after a few bottles of beer -- and a few shots of bourbon that they'd run out to the liquor store to get, because a six pack of beer between two big guys didn't make for _that_ much of a celebration -- was fucking hilarious.

"The best place to look, when _finding your hunt_ ," said Ed solemnly, as Harry nodded next to him, "is the local newspaper. Look in the obituaries for anything that seems suspicious."

"Or," said Harry, "um, look in the actual paper for anything that seems suspicious."

Ed nodded indulgently like he'd said that first. "Yes. Look in the newspaper for anything suspicious -- lots of deaths or disappearances or strange things. People will pass off very weird things as funny stories of local interest, but you! Hunter! Ghostfacer disciple! You may find your _ghost story_ hidden in there. Then, then -- important -- look very carefully through the obits, and see if you can see any _patterns_. Any more _mystery_. Maybe go through back copies at the library if you want to look for more information. But that's really hard and feels like being in school, so maybe just go talk to people. All research is good research! Go sniff out your case!"

"Newspapers!" added Harry, in a bizarrely ominous tone. "Local newspapers!"

Dean hiccupped on a chuckle and immediately pursed his lips together, hoping Sam hadn't noticed, but Sam was too busy laughing and beating his hands on his thighs, and Dean couldn't keep his lips pursed against the laughter spilling out. He waved a hand in Sam's direction and gave in to it.

"How did we get here, man? You know! Obituaries! Never mind splitting the sports and the funnies pages," he gasped, slumping over on the overstuffed arm of Sam's couch, "'here, honey, you can have the obits! Enjoy!'"

Sam snorted and ran his hands through his hair. "What are we doing? This is ridiculous! One day I'm, you know, fixing my fifteenth busted photocopier of the week, then I'm fending off a _ghost_ with a _poker_ and then, now, trying to find _more_ ghosts! Looking through lists of dead people!"

Dean shook his head, suddenly somber, staring at the slightly ratty carpet between his knees. "We're really doing this. I actually quit. We're seriously doing this."

Sam sighed, the relaxed _whoosh_ of the end of laughter. "That's like the fifteenth time you've said that, man. Do you need more convincing? You're really doing it. We're really doing it. We're--" he gestured expansively. "--taking hold of our lives and doing something real with them." His voice was kind of slurred, but very heartfelt.

Dean shook his head, slightly perturbed by the way his brains seemed to swish around inside, taking a second to catch up. He guessed a week of the Master Cleanse followed by this much alcohol would do that to you. Oh god, he'd undone so much good work. He really should be upset about that. "Real," he said, instead, shaping his mouth carefully around the word. "Real. I don't know, man. Any word I'd choose for this, I'd say _sur_ real."

Sam shouted out a quick laugh, but then he twisted on the couch to face Dean, pulled on Dean's shoulder so Dean was turned in towards him, too. Sam leaned in close, and slapped his other hand flat on Dean's chest. His palm was really big and warm and Dean could feel the heat bleeding right through his shirt and undershirt against his nipple. It was odd and distracting.

"Don't you feel it, though, man?" Sam was saying, face intent, breath a slightly beer-y warm gust over Dean's face. "In here. That's where it feels real. Finally feels like, like _something_. Something real. Not -- lists or schedules or broken printers or portfolios or fad diets or -- or -- _Sandover_ , that whole empty -- empty _easiness_ , but something big and scary and important. Yeah?"

He slapped at Dean's chest again, a drunken but earnest intensity in his face, and it seemed to echo right through Dean, the physical jolt and then that memory of how it had felt, the weird ache right there, where Sam's hand had been, sitting next to him in that office. They'd killed a ghost, saved lives, and it had felt like he'd eaten too much dairy or something except it was somehow _so good_ , this phantom ache that threatened to mess everything up.

He cleared his throat. "Yeah, I guess. I guess I feel it." Sam grinned at him, too-bright happy flash of teeth and dopey eyes, and drunkenly swayed close. Way, whoa, way too close. Dean leaned back, hand pushing firmly at Sam's shoulder. "And I think _you're_ feeling too much. Bed, yeah?"

Sam made a low sleepy noise; his eyes were heavy lidded, and he swayed again, against the couch back, and started to straighten out along the length of the couch, legs up, snuggling in so Dean had to get up before Sam included Dean as part of the comfy bed Sam had decided to make the couch.

"Hey, okay, okay, well, yes, I guess I'm getting the bed."

Sam's answer was a light snore and a mumble that could have been, "Night, Dean."

Dean grinned down at Sam, this strange man who seemed more to blame for the shift in Dean's life than the fact that ghosts were real did. "Night, Sammy."

\--

Dean had one of those moments upon waking where he had absolutely no idea where he was. He stared blankly at the off-white wall in front of him and slowly took stock of the low thump of his head, the dryness of his mouth, and put together -- strange bed -- hangover -- _really_? Drunken hookups were not exactly his thing. And -- he moved a leg experimentally -- the bed seemed pretty much empty apart from himself.

He sat up groggily, and it wasn't until he was squinting at the couple of yellow polo shirts hanging in the open closet that it all snapped back into place.

He got up and yawned and stumbled into the bathroom -- thankfully easily locatable right outside the bedroom -- then tiptoed through the living room, where Sam was still sacked out on the couch, into the small kitchen to get the coffee going. Oh, god, coffee. He hadn't had coffee in two weeks. If his mouth hadn't been dry and sticky with hangover he'd have been in danger of drooling.

He was just getting breakfast together -- whisking up an egg-white omelet; after all, just because he'd stopped with the Master Cleanse didn't mean he had to fall back into bad habits -- when he heard Sam step into the kitchen behind him. It wasn't until he turned and met Sam's raised eyebrow and slow once-over that he remembered he was wearing a pair of Sam's own boxers and a too-baggy t-shirt he'd found -- hopefully clean -- draped over a chair.

"Well," he said, defensively, "it wasn't like I had a change of clothes on me, and do you know how hard it is to get slept-in wrinkles out of those suits?"

Sam just raised his other eyebrow, and Dean turned back to the omelet, trying not to think about how soft the old-worn material of Sam's boxers was on his skin, or how he was faintly surrounded by the smell of Sam's detergent. "I feel like a sorority girl," he grumped, resuming his whisking, and it broke whatever awkward atmosphere had been building as Sam laughed, that bright flash of sound.

"How?"

Dean shrugged. "You know, waking up hungover in a strange house, making breakfast in some guy's too-big clothes."

"Hair all messed up," added Sam, and laughed as Dean's hand flew to his hair. "Some sorority girls you knew, huh?"

Dean sighed. "Jo -- my sister -- was one."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I think."

"Think?"

Dean furrowed his brow. "I, no. Yeah. Yeah, definitely." Yeah, that was right; he'd been oddly unsure for a minute. Damn hangover. "Yeah, used to drive mom crazy, and she didn't even know half the stuff that went on."

Sam laughed again. "College, man, crazy times. I remember it well."

Dean shrugged. "I don't -- mine wasn't that eventful, I guess."

Sam rubbed his hands together. "Bacon's in the fridge!"

Dean wrinkled his nose and made a noise of distaste.

Sam's face fell almost comically. "Dude, no. I mean -- c'mon! Hangover -- breakfast -- _bacon_ ," he said, gesturing as if each step were a logical continuation.

"Mmm," said Dean, "saturated animal fat first thing in the morning. Do you want me to die an early, bloated death?"

Sam just looked at him sadly.

Dean snorted. "Hey, I'm not stopping you, you can knock yourself out."

Sam just shook his head. "I'm sad for you, man. You're missing out. You look like a man who could use a little bacon in your life."

Dean blinked. "I, uh. Think I'm happy with my omelet."

The bacon looked -- well. It looked perfectly horrible, when it was frying, and smelled even worse, all bubbling and crisp, all that flavor -- fat. All that fat. No, thanks. And did Sam really need to make those noises while he was eating it?

Dean cleared his throat meaningfully as Sam wiped the sheen of bacon grease from his lips. "We need to decide where we're going to actually start, you know," he said. "We can't just sit around waiting for a ghost to pop up in front of us. We need to follow the Ghostfacers' advice, if we want to be like them, actually seek this stuff out."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Newspapers?" He nodded along with Dean. "Newspapers."

Which turned out to be somewhat of a bust, actually -- there were hundreds of stories of doom and gloom, robberies and rapes and murders and muggings and car accidents and all the mundanely horrific things that went on in the world, and by early afternoon Dean was thoroughly depressed and totally at a loss as to whether any of these things constituted any sort of potentially supernatural mystery.

"Christ," he said morosely, staring at the black smudges of newsprint on his fingers, as Sam browsed on his laptop, "forget this ghost hunting business, maybe we should just become cops. Or vigilante superheroes. There's enough crap that goes on in the world caused by regular people, let alone tackling _ghosts_."

Sam made a dismissive noise. "Much less exciting. I mean," he added hastily as Dean looked up, eyebrows raised, "that's all very noble, but there already are plenty of people who work hard to stop all that stuff. Hardly anyone knows about the supernatural stuff, so they need everyone they can get who's willing to fight it. Saving lives is saving lives, right?"

Dean grinned. "Plus it's more exciting," he allowed.

"Anyway," said Sam, almost bouncing in his seat, "I think we can forget the newspaper this time at least. There's a new entry on the Ghostfacers' blog about a hunt in Everett, Washington; three guys have died in the past month, all -- apparently beaten to death with a paddle."

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Like a canoe paddle? Or like don't piss off the teacher paddle?"

Sam nodded, eyes scanning the page. "Teacher paddle, I think. The Ghostfacers say they were sent a tip by a follower who lives in the town, who said it seems strange because they heard from someone that at least one of the victims was complaining of weird noises and cold spots in the house."

Dean nodded. "Three identical strange deaths plus cold spots--"

"--definitely seems enough of a mystery to check out."

"That's -- that's the other side of the country. Aren't the Ghostfacers doing it? They have, you know, all the skills and experience."

Sam shook his head. "Ed's car broke down and Harry's grounded after trying to sell his Grandmother's antique engagement ring for funds to fix it."

Dean's mouth twisted. "Sucks."

"Poor guys. So they put a call out for any Ghostfacers disciples who have a car and time to spare to go and investigate."

Dean sat down abruptly. "Are you sure --? Can we really deal with this? Sam, I don't know. What if we can't do it?"

Sam looked up, eyes suddenly blazing, and Dean shrank down a little inside Sam's baggy tee-shirt.

"Of course we can do it, Dean! The comments on the blog entry are full of people giving excuses for why they can't -- this is our _chance_! To do what we _know_ we can do! To work together like we did before, to stop something evil, to save people! Don't you want that?" Sam was standing up, now, tall and fervent.

Dean felt a little hot for some reason, and plucked at the neck of the shirt, trying to get a little air to his flushed skin. "I -- do. I do want that." He nodded, and couldn't seem to look away from Sam. "Let's do it."

Sam let Dean change back into his suit but swore that he wouldn't let Dean wear it for any longer than it would take to go to his apartment and change into something _suitable_.

"What's _suitable_ ," he said irritably, relaxing into the calming press of his buttoned collar and cuffs, the elastic hold of his suspenders, feeling much more in control than he had in a good few hours. Sam was bustling around his apartment with a backpack and shoulder bag, throwing in everything he thought they might need for a road trip on the way to kill a ghost.

"Sam, we -- we won't need forks," he said, as Sam rattled open the cutlery drawer.

Sam looked up at him. "We might! The Ghostfacers said silver works against some supernatural things, like iron does!"

"And they're almost certainly right," said Dean, "but your knives and forks are not silver."

Sam squinted at the fork in his hand. "They're not?"

"Stainless steel, most likely. I have a set of silver tableware at my apartment--"

"Of course you do."

"--so we'll pick those up. Come on, Sam, let's get going!"

Sam stuffed a salt shaker in a side pocket, running his other hand through his hair. "Right. Clothes. I need enough clothes. Google Maps said the place is, what, less than a forty hour drive away, so we should be able to make it in--"

"About a week?" said Dean, just as Sam was saying "--a couple of days?"

They looked at each other for a blank moment, before Dean scowled. "Unless you have your own car, there is no way I'm putting my Prius through that much road in that short a time -- not to mention, do you realize how unhealthy it is to sit in one place for that long each day? We need regular breaks -- there are all sorts of health risks -- there's a reason I never fly anywhere, for Christ's sake!"

Sam was looking at him in exasperation. "Pedal to metal, we can make it there in two days, Dean! How can you care about health risks when there are people dying out there?"

If Sam wanted Dean doing this whole hunting business, there were going to have to be certain compromises they'd both have to make. Dean could not be expected to drop _all_ his principles at the door. And what good would saving people do if the next second he'd dropped down dead from a DVT clot in his brain?

"Four days -- at the most," he allowed. "Maybe three, depending on how the car does, but _I say_ how the car is doing, and we get out to walk around whenever I say we need to."

"Dean--"

"If this is going to be a partnership, it has to be about _compromise_ , Sam!" said Dean, almost surprised at his vehemence -- but goddammit, his entire world had changed dramatically in just a few days, and he was on a short fuse, alright? He'd missed his weekly yoga last night and he felt wound up all over already.

Sam licked his lips and looked down. "Right. Sorry."

"It's okay, Sammy. Sam," he amended, as Sam glanced up, his expression going from slightly sheepish to menacing. "Sam. Got it. Come on, then, let's get going!"

Sam sighed when they got to Dean's apartment, and made Dean collect the silverware while Sam went through Dean's closets and determined what clothes would be suitable for hunting. Dean had said he'd done perfectly well with the ghost of P.T Sandover in his business suits, but Sam had shaken his head and said Dean needed comfort and mobility and maybe a pair of jeans to at least blend in a bit. Dean had privately agreed with him, but argued a little anyway, mostly because there was something kind of nice about Sam's almost fondly exasperated face he got when Dean was too -- _Dean_ , fussing over his clothes and food and everything. Dean didn't really think too much about why it was nice, to see that little eye-roll and quirk of Sam's mouth, and it was pretty much equally annoying, anyway. Dean was a grown damn man, he should be able to choose his own outfits for hunting ghosts, but if Sam thought he was the best judge of it, then fine, he could knock himself out. They were _compromising_ after all, and Sam had given in about the car.

Sam came out of the bedroom and firmly dumped a pile of clothes on the white leather couch and said, as if it were a great concession, that Dean could fold them and pack them into his bag. Dean did so, as Sam went around the rest of the apartment wondering aloud what they should take with them, hands all over Dean's stuff, poking around and looking, which Dean was rather surprised to find was actually kind of okay. In general, really, being around Sam was -- it was so strange, it was something so new, it was relaxing and stressful all at the same time. He felt in tune with this man who'd been a stranger to him just a few days ago; felt everything he was strain towards him like a magnet, with a stressful kind of intensity that demanded he know what Sam was thinking, feeling, doing, if he was okay all the time. Dean didn't really know what to _do_ with that -- well, his Mom had always said he'd been an intense child. He was pretty sure she'd told him that. It sounded right, anyway. And he was just -- being intense about his new friend. He didn't have a whole lot of close friends, so it was expected. It would pass.

In the meantime -- yeah, it was undeniable they fit together well, worked together well, even if they seemed to annoy each other half the time. They were already well on their way to the stage where they'd start finishing each other's sentences -- and it had been only a few days. It was kinda weird.

Dean fidgeted with the buttons of the dark polo shirt he'd put on over a pair of well-fitted jeans. He missed the pressure of suspenders over his shoulders. He cleared his throat. "Hey, do you--"

"Yeah, I was thinking about that. I mean, the stuff we have in our kitchens isn't going to go far; maybe we should hit up Walmart on the way out of town, get a bulk box or whatever--"

Dean stood up abruptly, pointing a finger at Sam. How had Sam known he was talking about salt? There was -- there was being in tune with someone, and there was total _mind reading_.

"Stop lying to me!"

Sam stopped running his fingers over the appliances in Dean's kitchen as if they would suddenly leap up and demonstrate their innate ability to kill ghosts. He looked over at Dean, nonplussed. "What?"

Dean glared at him. "You said you -- _we_ were in your dreams, doing this stuff. Which is fucked up and creepily obsessive, by the way. But whatever. You said -- you _said_ you weren't psychic!" He pointed an accusing finger at Sam, who was sort of gaping at him.

"I -- what the hell? I'm _not_!"

"Nuh-uh." Dean shook his head.

"Um. _Nuh-uh_?" echoed Sam.

"You are! You're something! All -- in my head, somehow! Knowing what I'm talking about! What _are_ you? Are you a supernatural thingy?" Dean quickly looked around to see if there was anything iron in the vicinity, or failing that, something heavy he could maybe knock Sam out with so he could make a quick getaway.

Sam shook his head slowly. "I'm -- I'm honestly, truly not psychic, Dean. Not that I'm aware of. I promise I can't see inside your head. I'm not a supernatural thingy." He looked annoyingly amused. "You're just spooked because I _know_ you. Didn't I say?"

Dean scowled. "You don't _know_ me."

Sam smiled sunnily at him. "I'm starting to. I just understand how you work, Dean, probably because I'm smart. Don't get your panties in a bunch."

Dean shook his head again, though with less conviction. "Psychic." He pointed at Sam again.

"I'm not--! This is the most retarded argument anyone has ever had."

Dean made a _tsk_ ing noise. "Watch your mouth, Sammy."

Sam blinked. " _Thank you_ , Mr. P.C."

So maybe Sam wasn't psychic. He was just a smartass.

It was mid afternoon by the time they had everything piled into the trunk of Dean's Prius--which they'd retrieved from the Sandover garage -- or rather, half the bags packed into the trunk, half crammed into the backseat. It wasn't the car best designed for road trips, and Dean ran hand over the side of it worriedly. It was such a good little car -- compact and modern and _so_ environmentally friendly.

"Don't worry about the car, Dean," said Sam, and he wasn't being dismissive, he actually sounded like he was trying to be reassuring. "They're -- I think they're built pretty sturdy." Dean felt obscurely better.

He wanted to leave it until tomorrow morning -- after all, they couldn't get very far with the daylight left, and Dean wasn't the biggest fan of driving at night -- but Sam sent him a look that stopped him before he could start, so he got in and hit the start button.

It was weird, at first, to have Sam sitting next to him -- he was always on his own in this car, on that dreary commute to and from work. Driving was always to get somewhere, preferably as soon as possible -- and sure, they were trying to get somewhere now, but it felt different. It felt like open days ahead of him, not a cramped forty-five minutes in traffic.

The sun was starting to hang heavy in the sky as the afternoon lengthened; the roads were fairly quiet as they headed out of the city, towards -- fine, towards _adventure_. Dean felt juvenile and stupid and excited, and he couldn't help grin across at Sam, folded into the passenger seat. It felt nice to have that space filled by someone -- like this was how driving was meant to be, a person slouched in that empty space, the road yawning ahead of them, heading right into the sky.

Sam flicked on the radio, then immediately started talking over it, like he needed to fill up the car with noise, but it was nice, actually; small talk and the faint beat of some soft rock station and the underlying purr of the soft engine; the hiss of movement, air against the car, tires against the road. It was -- it was doing what he'd never quite managed with his Ocean Sounds CD and a gentle Downwards Facing Dog pose -- it seeped into his bones and _relaxed_ him thoroughly. The knots that hunched his shoulders up around his ears after a long day at work were a memory; the cadence of Sam's voice, rumbling buzzing burr of the motion of the car over miles and miles of road was loosening him -- the vibrations, the purr of the engine, doing better work than any strap-on chair massager vibrating pad he'd tried in his office.

He felt loose and happy as they rolled through a small town a few hours later -- it was fully dark and he and Sam were shooting the shit, talking about their arrival at Sandover, coworkers, idle talk.

Sam pointed at a lit up Motel Vacancy sign. "We should stop for the night, get some rest for tomorrow. Regular breaks, right?" He was grinning, but Dean's mouth was tightening up and he felt a little tense again. "I don't know," he said, "I don't like the look of that place. Can we try and find a -- I don't know, a Holiday Inn?"

"We're deep in Nowhere, Ohio, Dean, you're gonna have to be a bit more flexible. This is probably the last place for miles, and I don't think either of us want to drive through the night."

Dean pursed his lips. "Fine."

\--

"What did you _do_ to Dean?" asked Castiel, sounding quite concerned, as they observed the way Dean carefully lined up bottles on the counter in the small motel bathroom and worked his way neatly through the steps of his skincare routine.

Zachariah leaned forward, fascinated. "I just blanked his mind and gave him a set of new memories and a shell of a personality. This -- neurotic side seems to be an entertaining side effect."

"What if you've -- broken him for good?"

"Don't sound so distressed, Castiel; he'll be fine. The real Dean Winchester is really just as broken, if you think about it, all his emotion and self doubt crammed in behind a wall of posturing. This one seems to put all that behind a wall of -- a strange self-focused obsession with health and appearance. Just a different way humans have of being inexplicable."

Dean patted down his face with toner on a little cotton ball. Castiel frowned. "There is something less disturbing about the posturing, I must say." But he didn't waver in his attention.

Zachariah felt pleased. If Castiel found this as enthralling as he did, then he would be less likely to try further to stop him. It was just so -- _watchable_.

\--

Dean was already lying in bed, covers pulled up, ready to sleep. The motel was irritatingly close to the highway, and wavering beams of headlights kept slicing through the room. Dean thought longingly of his sleep mask, still tucked inside his bedside table back at his apartment.

Sam came out of the bathroom with a whoosh of steam, wrapped in just a thin towel around his hips. He was broad, and built, water droplets running over the definition of his muscles, like something out of -- well, Dean didn't know what. But it was -- totally inappropriate.

He turned his head to the other side of his bed. "Dude, please. Cover yourself."

Sam laughed. "What? You prude." There was a smirk in his voice. "I thought you weren't interested in anything like that."

Dean's voice rose as he protested. "I am not! Jesus! I just -- I don't know. Don't you value your privacy?"

Sam was probably shrugging, but Dean wouldn't look. He felt weird. It just -- seemed like they, they didn't know each other that well yet, and there were lines, lines of normal society and personal space that he felt like he had to uphold, here, because there needed to be _some_ rules or structure to this crazy situation.

"I don't know what your problem is, man. It's not like I was naked."

Jesus. Dean squeezed his eyes shut. He remembered Sam saying that -- that in his dreams, they'd been more than friends, more like brothers. Close. Comfortable. Maybe that's what Sam felt. Maybe that's why he was so much more at ease with muddying those lines all over the place. Dean -- whatever he felt about Sam, it was weird and new and -- _brothers_ didn't seem right . It seemed too much and not enough and he'd go crazy if he started picking it apart, so he started his meditation breathing and made himself relax. "Whatever," he said, making himself sound sleepier than he was so Sam would leave him be, "maybe you went to a boarding school and I didn't, maybe I'm a prude, just. Wear clothes."

Sam made an amused noise, but shut up. Dean could hear him rustling with clothes, pulling back the covers and getting in, and maybe that should have felt awkwardly intimate, weird; hearing someone get into bed and sleep, just feet away. But it relaxed Dean more than the meditation breathing was doing -- knowing Sam was near and safe and sleeping; like now _he_ was allowed to sleep. He slept deep and well and didn't remember his dreams, which was probably a good thing.

In the morning, they were back on the road, and Dean realized as Sam was throwing the bags in the trunk that he hadn't rubbed in his second application of aftershave moisturizing balm. He started to say _wait_ , started to tell Sam he'd need to get his bag out again -- but Sam looked happy and excited, the sun was bright and new, and there was the road, just there, leading to their goal, and maybe they could reach it sooner than he'd thought if they just -- went. He rubbed his hand over his jaw absently, and started the engine.

Sam jiggled his leg incessantly as Dean scowled at him as they drove west. "What?"

Sam huffed. "I've been thinking -- we _really_ need guns, Dean. Shotguns. We can't just lug pokers and handfuls of salt around and hope we can get close enough to ghosts to swing at them, and the Ghostfacers said it was the best weapon a hunter could have."

Dean sighed, tightened his hands on the warm leather of the steering wheel. "I know, but -- come on, do we need to think about that now? Can't we just wait until we get into the town? We're not even sure it's a ghost." He felt kind of sweaty and awkward even thinking about getting hold of guns. He was totally principled against weapons, plus they were, you know, kind of terrifying. It wasn't like they could just waltz into a store and buy _guns_ like any redneck bloodthirsty crazy person; what if, what if it went on his permanent record or something?

Sam frowned at him. "No, Dean, we need to decide what we’re going to do -- how to somehow get--"

Dean thumped the steering wheel. "No, Sam. Not now anyway! Okay? Okay."

Sam went quiet and shrugged sulkily, which Dean really should have taken as a warning sign. He knew Sam well enough by now to know that Sam backing down from anything was not a normal or reassuring sign.

They continued on in slightly awkward silence, until Sam nearly whacked Dean in the nose gesturing at an exit a while later for a little town off the highway. "Let's go through there. Pull up for a break somewhere."

Dean frowned even as he carefully signaled to change into the lane for the exit. "We had a walk-break barely an hour ago, Sam."

Sam shrugged. "I take the health risks seriously! What does a clot feel like anyway?" He frowned and rubbed at his leg, and even though Dean had a distinct feeling he was being played, he also had what might be called an irrational fear of dying from a blood clot just because he sat on his ass too long, so he drove quickly down the back road that lead to whatever little town had caught Sam's fancy.

They parked along the pleasant, quiet main street, and Dean eyed Sam worriedly as they got out. "Squeeze your leg muscles," he advised, "do a few high steps." He resolutely ignored Sam's eye roll. Sam may have been screwing with him but he'd thank him if Dean saved him from a stroke. And if Sam never had a stroke, well, Dean could say it was because of him.

They were wandering along the quiet dusty roads, when Sam stopped to casually peruse the sign above the store they were passing. Dean followed his gaze, and barely had time to register the fact it was a _gun store_ before Sam was grabbing his arm and dragging him to the entrance.

Dean's heart thumped in his chest.

"Sam -- what -- come on--"

"Distract him," said Sam, nodding to the guy they could see behind the counter, and started to tug Dean into the store.

"Distract--? What the hell are you--"

It was quiet and dim inside the store and Dean bit down on his own lip to shut himself up, because much as he wanted to verbally beat Sam around the head, he even more wanted to avoid making a scene in a _weapons store_.

"Do as I say and follow my lead and distract him," said Sam, low and forceful.

"Follow my _fucking ass_ ," hissed Dean pointlessly as he walked behind Sam. But it wasn't loud enough for Sam to hear because something in Dean responded to that order, clear and firm, and shut down the rebellious irritated voice in his head; he simply followed Sam towards the counter and the muscled, menacing, though admittedly dim-looking heavyset guy behind the low glass counter.

Sam propped his elbows on the counter and beamed. "Hi!" he said.

"Can I help you?" said muscle-guy gruffly.

"I hope so!" said Sam, then turned to look at Dean cheerily.

 _Distract him, fine, okay, whatever,_ thought Dean, and took a breath. Followed orders. There was a skittering fear racing around inside him -- _he was surrounded by violent weapons and facing down a guy who clearly knew how to use them!_ \-- but there was something in him that woke up and took over. Maybe it was the part that successfully negotiated billion-dollar deals with huge corporate clients -- it responded somehow to the challenge in the air, the snapping of fear and adrenaline in his blood, and it reached out with confidence and opened his mouth.

"My brother and I--"

Now where had that come from?

"--are thinking of getting -- you know, some personal protection. For our families. Interested in the handguns for starters," he said, waving towards the selection displayed behind the counter, to the left.

Muscle-guy's attention locked on him and his focus shifted towards Dean and the handguns. Dean could sense Sam edging in the other direction in his peripheral vision, and he had a bad feeling about this, but -- well, he was committed, now, and he could always blame Sam, and fully planned to.

"So I'm thinking, a nice powerful handgun, just to put the fear of God in any punk who thinks he can come near me and my family," said Dean conversationally, watching the eager gleam in muscle-guy's eyes as he nodded along.

"Well," he said, "I got quite a selection for you. Good idea to have a rifle or two, too, really show 'em you mean _business_."

Dean tried not to flinch at the bloodthirsty edge to the guy's voice, and nodded vehemently instead, trying not to wonder about what Sam was doing.

"Yeah, that sounds like a fantastic idea. I want something with a real -- _bite_ to it," he said lasciviously, then, randomly and loudly, " _yeah_!" as Sam made a clattering noise with whatever the fuck he was doing next to the glass case of shoguns he'd ended up by. Wait -- he wasn't --

The guy raised his eyebrows and shifted his shoulders like he was going to turn the other way, so Dean slammed himself forward over the counter, palm slapping down on the glass, nose an inch from muscle-guy's. "I want to make them _fear_ me," he said, low and intense, eyes locked to muscle-guy's.

It worked for a few seconds until Sam made one hell of a clatter dropping one of the two shotguns he was trying to _shove under his jacket, what the hell_. Sam startled for a moment, eyes wide, then ran towards the door.

Dean resisted slamming his head down onto the glass counter and instead jerked himself towards the exit too, trying not let the panicked voice in his head -- suddenly much louder than the confident one -- win out and freeze him in _utter terror_.

Muscle-guy seemed paralyzed with disbelief for a second, shouting "Hey!", hands splayed on the counter, giving Dean a good long moment to scramble towards the door. Sam shoved it open and Dean spluttered in indignation as it swung back nearly in his face, before he pushed at it wildly and ran out into the street -- in the middle of the fucking day, running out of a gun store that they'd just robbed.

\--

"Castiel, slow him down, he's too close behind them!"

"I can't, I'm suppressing the alarm on the case that Sam _yanked_ open after I loosened the lock for him--"

"Well I'm bringing the car closer!"

"Fine, I can trip him--"

"Get dust in his eyes too so he can't see the plates."

"This is foolish, Zachariah -- how are they going to learn anything if you keep helping them?

"Oh, be quiet -- this would be much less fun if they got themselves arrested and we had to go through getting them out of jail."

"So you don't want to see this Dean surviving in _jail_?"

Zachariah paused. "That could--"

"No, Zachariah, I didn't really -- the car! They're nearly there--"

"Fine, fine -- got it--"

\--


	2. Chapter 2

"Jesus -- fucking -- Christ," Dean huffed out in jagged breaths as they pelted down the empty sidewalk, expecting to hear the crack of a gun any second. "You -- fucking -- lunatic!" He could see the car gleaming in the midday sun, not far off now considering how far they'd walked _from_ it, they must be running at Olympic speeds, not that he'd be surprised. Their feet stumbled and scuffed on the gritty ground as they flung themselves at the car, and the door seemed to open almost on its own under his scrabbling hand, thankfully. He jabbed at the start button as Sam exploded into the passenger side with an awkward armful of stolen shotguns, and Dean was so eager to be _driving_ that it felt like the car was moving even before the engine caught.

"What? What -- the hell -- you're crazy -- why did you just steal -- oh my god--"

The car screamed away, dust puffing up behind them, Sam huffing out, "Oh -- my -- fuck -- shit -- shit -- god -- _ha_ \--"

"No!" said Dean, the confident part of himself that had popped up in the store eaten away by hysteria and the conviction that wailing blue lights were going to appear in his rearview mirror _any second_. "No, you do not get to -- laugh or enjoy this or think it was a _good idea_ until we are -- many many miles away and very very safe! Jesus -- oh my fucking _god_." His poor car had never gone this fast as they squealed back onto the freeway.

"Slow down or we'll get pulled over for _speeding_ , never mind anything else," gasped Sam, laughter in his voice.

Ten minutes of driving later, with no cops appearing behind them, Dean turned to Sam, eyes bugging out.

"What? Seriously, what was that? Why the hell did you decide to rob a fucking gun store?"

Sam was grinning. "Well, I mean, we needed guns, so--"

"We could have just _bought them_!"

Sam's face fell in a manner that could have been quite amusing if Dean were not still riding the edge of undiluted _terror_. "Well, no, because we -- I mean, we don't have a license or, uh, anything, and we don't have time to wait--"

"You don't _need_ to wait! You think the hunters around here are gonna just sit around and twiddle their thumbs when they want a new rifle? That's, like. The hippies in California, or something. And you know what would have been more sensible, than just stealing -- _asking_! Oh my god!"

Sam waved his hands around defensively. "Well, I didn't know! I thought there were like -- wait times and shit, don't they need to check you're _allowed_ a weapon? I don't know, I'm tech support, how am I meant to know anything about _guns_?"

"You're a sociopath is what you are. You _wanted_ to steal them so you didn't even check. You're insane. Why am I in this car with you?"

"Aw, come on, I thought we _had_ to, I'm not -- anyway, if you weren't such a goddamn pussy about it and avoided the subject then you could have told me!

"You didn't think to ask?"

"Every time I brought it up you avoided it, you're just scared of guns, I had to take matters into my own hands."

"I am not scared--"

Sam grabbed one of the shotguns and raised it right at Dean. Dean jumped, swore and flinched so hard the car swerved.

"Fucking lunatic!" he yelled again, and Sam put the gun back down smugly.

"See," he said.

"Yes, Sam, of course I'm scared of a goddamn gun when you point at my _face_!"

"Look," said Sam dismissively, "it's done now, we're fine, we have the guns that we needed, forget about it."

"Oh my god," said Dean faintly.

"Anyway, it was totally fun."

Dean refused to answer that.

"Besides, you went along with it," Sam said grumpily. "You must have known I was going to do something crazy."

 _You give really good orders_ seemed like an inappropriate response to that, so Dean just glared and continued his silence. He went back to convincing himself that the police were going to show up any moment and he'd end up spending the foreseeable future in prison, and he already knew he was definitely not cut out for that life.

After half an hour of nudging the upper edge of the speed limit, Dean pulled off at a rest stop and barreled out of the car, put his hands down on a nearby picnic table, and breathed.

He could hear Sam close the car door and tentatively walk up to him. "Dean? Don't -- come on, we have a ghost to kill before you're allowed to have a heart attack."

Dean blinked. "I think I'm going to be sick." He opened his mouth, and out of nowhere, started laughing. It was a wild, possibly-hysterical breathless laughter, and he sat down on the scrubby grass and put a hand over his mouth. His cheeks hurt.

Sam was lounging against the table, now looking smug.

"Shut up," gasped Dean, getting his breath back, and suddenly his heart started beating fast all over again like he was running from the store, except it wasn't fear, it was just adrenaline and giddy relief and it felt -- kind of _awesome_. "Oh my god," he said. "We just _stole guns_."

"And it was awesome."

"It was stupid and reckless and I have absolutely no idea how we aren't in handcuffs right now."

"But it was awesome."

Dean sighed and flopped backwards, not even caring he was getting dirt on his clothes and maybe even in his hair. "Yeah, it kind of was."

Sam's grin looked funny and crazy from this angle, and Dean just grinned back at him.

He hauled himself upright, feeling abruptly weak and kind of trembly, but his mouth was still stretched into this helpless grin and he felt jittery like he'd just had a double shot espresso on an empty stomach, except he hadn't had coffee since their diner breakfast hours ago.

"Oh man, I don't think I'm cut out for this."

"Are you kidding? You're totally cut out for this. You're practically _glowing_ with it. You're so cut out for it you're a _stencil_. I knew you'd take to being a criminal."

"Oh my god, I'm a criminal."

"Don't worry about it. You'll get all the karma back from saving people."

Sam's logic was probably faulty but Dean grinned anyway. They were going to _save people_. Who cares if -- who cares if they had to break the law. They got away with it, didn't they? Then he pointed at Sam. "This doesn't mean you _know me_."

"Yeah, yeah." Sam grabbed firmly at Dean's shoulder, still smiling, and squeezed, and Dean shuddered. He felt tingly and alive all over, wanted to fold himself right into Sam, to touch, put his face into Sam's neck where the skin looked warm and smooth, to feel Sam's hands rub over his shoulder, relieve the jittery excitement under his skin; wanted to grab hold of Sam tight and say _we did it_!

He frowned and pushed at Sam, stepped away, rubbed a hand over his jaw. His skin felt dry and tight; he shouldn't have missed that moisturizer, he'd have to make sure to take special care tonight.

Sam cocked his head at him. "You okay?"

Dean cleared his throat. "What? Sure. Look, do we even know how to use a gun? Did we bother to steal any ammo?"

"We can figure it out. And of course," said Sam, with a devilish smile, as he put a hand into his pocket and pulled out a box of shotgun shells. "I am awesome, don't forget. Some salt in these, and bam -- no ghost is getting anywhere near us."

Dean's mouth tugged up into a grin again almost despite his best wishes. "You're alright."

Dean felt on edge for the rest of the day, though. Sam was just -- there, this big warm moving talking excitable presence in his car. It made him feel stressed and weird like there was something in his chest too big to keep in; any more of Sam's grins and words and random little touches and maybe he'd just explode, Alien-style, and that just -- wouldn't be fair on his car, really, very messy, and would Sam just shut _up_? He stared at the road, arranged his hands at perfect ten-and-two, moved his fingers the exact same width apart, and breathed steady.

"Dude, you're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you? We should stop soon, it's getting late."

"Fine," snapped Dean, and could see Sam's eyebrows raise in his peripheral vision.

"What did I say? You've been edgy all afternoon."

"Maybe that's because we committed a _crime_ earlier. And maybe I'm -- you know, nervous about the fact we're going after a ghost soon -- one that kills people! Christ!"

Sam's face softened, and Dean felt ridiculous that he was pretty much lying, because they were perfectly valid things to be worrying about, but instead Dean couldn't cope with the fact he had a friend who -- who he cared about, or whatever.

"Okay," Sam said, and, "we'll be fine, you know? We're good at this. I know we are. I know this is way beyond your comfort zone, so -- thanks for coming along with me. With all this. I just -- I know this is what we're meant to be doing. It feels right, you know."

"Take your word for it," grumbled Dean, but -- he did. This felt stupid and scary and unfamiliar and dangerous and totally and completely what he should be doing. Sandover had been structured and easy -- even when it was difficult -- and he knew exactly what he was meant to be doing every day, all of the time, but something about it had always seemed off. Like wearing a gorgeous Armani suit that didn't fit quite right around the shoulders. You shouldn't want to wear the cheap ugly one, but it just _fit_ so much better even if people looked at you differently. Fine, the metaphor was shoddy, but the point was, Sam was right, and it scared Dean more than the ghosts they were hunting. More than pretty much anything.

They soon pulled into a motel parking lot -- just a couple hours' drive away from the town itself; they'd made better time than he'd planned. They could start the investigation the next day, probably. Somehow. Dean hardly knew where to start.

He frowned as he opened the trunk, seeing Sam's big backpack smashed on top of his holdall. "Way to smash my luggage, man," he said.

Sam laughed. "Luggage. Oh my god. We're not vacationing."

"Shut up," Dean snapped back, pulling his bag carefully from under Sam's and holding it under one arm, fiddling with the zip. "You better not have broken anything."

"Get your stick out of your ass, dude."

Dean pursed his lips shut and stalked into the motel.

He felt his lips pull up into a fastidious sort of sneer as they got into the room. "Sam, this place smells of _onions_."

Sam grinned. "Hungry?"

"Can't we -- ask for another room? Or something? I can't -- come on, look at these _towels_ , have these even been laundered? Not to mention they're like paper -- this will be hell on my skin, I'm surprised I'm not covered in hives already--"

"Oh for god's sake!" snapped Sam, chucking his bag on the bed furthest from the door. "Shut up! About -- towels and skin and, and food and everything else you keep talking about. You relax for just a second, and it's _awesome_ and then you retreat back into this -- this prissy shell! Your defense mechanism is so transparent you may as well be made of plastic--"

"What -- you -- your fucking face is made of plastic!" spluttered Dean.

"This isn't funny, Dean."

"I'm not trying to be! I'm just -- really bad at arguing. Especially when I'm _pissed off_. If you can't _put up_ with me then just, you know, let's give up and go home and pray we can get paying jobs again, because this is just _me_ , Sam, deal with it."

"It's not, though. It's what you pretend to be or try to be or think you should be, because you can't find anything more important to care about, except -- newsflash! It's what we're doing, it's what I know you're meant to do, it's me and you going out there and doing the right thing, that you care about. I know you do, I know you feel it."

Dean was doing the mental version of sticking his fingers in his ears and going la-la-la, trying not to listen to all this stuff Sam was saying that was all sorts of maybe-true and scary. He muttered, "Whatever," and opened his bag, ready to pull out his pajamas and toiletry bag, to get ready for bed, except. Except. His pot of cucumber eye cream had come out of his toiletry bag and -- probably somewhere between Sam chucking their bags haphazardly into the trunk, squashing Dean's, and the reckless and bumpy way they'd been driving after the gun store -- well, the plastic pot had cracked open. Sticky pale green cream coated the inside of his bag and everything in it.

He stared helplessly, frozen. How -- that was not going to come off easily. He'd have to wash the entire bag -- they didn't even have a laundry room close by in this fleapit of a motel -- this was _all Sam's fault_. His brows drew down and he opened his mouth to shout at him for being so _careless_ , but something stopped him. He stared down into the bag still. His mouth twitched.

Sam was looking curiously at him. "Are you okay?" He frowned some more and sniffed. "What's that _smell_?"

Dean made a strangled noise. He imagined saying, "My cucumber-scented under-eye cream," and the absurd hilarity of the whole situation seemed like the funniest thing that had ever, ever happened to him.

Sam startled, then reached for Dean, looking worried, which made everything a hundred times worse, and Dean couldn't breathe for a second as laughter grabbed hold of him and he folded forward onto the bed, arms holding him up as he shook with it.

Sam made a confused noise and withdrew his arm as he realized Dean was _laughing_. Dean snorted and gulped and chanced a look up at Sam, which just set him off again -- Sam looked completely baffled but his face was helplessly mirroring Dean, mouth pulling up, dimples dipping in, and he shook his head and started laughing too, his amused noise of realization as he leaned forward and saw the cucumber carnage inside the bag.

Dean trailed off, breathing in great gulps of air, and realized he was sitting on the floor now. He felt relaxed and good and like maybe he was letting some of it _go_ \-- all that fretting and fear, just letting himself be and feel, and why was that so scary, after all? Maybe -- this was awesome. Sam was awesome. This whole thing could be. He didn't need to cling on to what he'd been and done before -- this was new. And it wasn't to be feared. Oprah always said that turning over a new leaf involves letting go of fear of change, and he -- he could do that. He totally could.

Sam sat down on the floor next to him, grinning and huffing out the end of his own laughter, eyes bright. His knees knocked into Dean's, and Dean grinned at him.

"See," said Sam, "this is you. When you relax. You're awesome." He grinned and leaned in close and kissed Dean.

\--

"Oh my _god_ ," said Castiel.

Zachariah glanced at him. "I could have you struck down for blasphemy, but. Oh my god."

"Er," said Castiel. "Maybe -- I really think this should be stopped. Now. Zachariah."

Zachariah was rapt. "Possibly. Oh, this is _good_. This is seriously good."

"This is no longer solely about humiliating Dean, is it?"

"I am starting to understand that human _obsession_ with televised drama. This is too good to be missed. What on earth, heaven or hell will they do next?"

"This isn't fair, you know, letting them -- letting this carry on."

"How do you mean, _fair_?"

"You see what's happening here! They're confused, and -- they're brothers! When we stop this, this will be -- damaging to them."

Zachariah made a dismissive noise. "Really, Castiel, didn't think you'd be such a prude. Homosexual incest is the least of these boys' sins, you know that much, and it's not much of a step for them anyway."

"Not much of a _step_?"

"Don't sound so scandalized! You see how they are about each other -- far too close to be healthy. Dean _literally_ sold his soul for Sam. The only way to get Sam to give in to the power that would seduce anyone else in mere months was to kill his brother and turn him practically sociopathic. Physical is just the last step of their relationship and I'm pretty sure only social taboo had stopped it so far."

Castiel blinked. "You've thought a lot about that."

Zachariah shrugged. "Plus it only feeds into my eventual plans for them if this does -- cause further problems between them in the long run, so -- win-win. If you really want to stop them -- go down there and try."

Castiel bit his lip, but didn't move.

\--

Sam was pacing and Dean was still sitting on the floor, feeling somewhat frozen.

"Dean, seriously, say something, I can't apologize again. I just got caught up in the moment, it was whatever, it's not anything, just -- Dean."

Dean needed to say something. Anything. Words. "No, that's fine," he said robotically. "Okay." He blinked and moved his legs and paused for a moment trying to figure out how to maneuver his limbs to stand up again. Only distinct bits of his brain seemed to be working at any one time. When he said he was awesome and could totally deal with change, this was -- no, this was not the change he meant, this was not happy fun times, this was -- totally not cool and way over the line and made Dean's head feel like it was going to explode or fall off and it was weird and, and Dean was just going to shut it away in a nice, neat little box on a shelf and not look at Sam for a while. It was fine, it was just, you know, not. A thing. Or ever going to happen again. Or be thought about. Dean blinked, his eyes feeling too big for his sockets. "Okay," he said again.

"Wow, it's so not okay. You are freaking the fuck out," said Sam, pausing in the incessant pacing and looking right at him.

"No," said Dean, knowing he needed to make more words here, "I, uh, no, it's fine. I just." He swallowed and organized a sentence in his head meticulously. "Really, Sam, it's okay. I'm just irresistible, I understand. Really, we're fine." He smiled, but Sam looked as convinced as if Dean had just told him he was starring in a Broadway musical next week.

"No, you're _really_ freaking the fuck out, more than if you were just--" he shut his mouth abruptly as if he'd been planning on saying more, and Dean was faintly grateful he hadn't finished the sentence. Even if he was wrong. Dean was not -- really freaking out. He just. He was fine. He was just not thinking about it. There were many things he didn't think about, but there was plenty of room back there, he kept his shelf of things not to think about very well organized. There needed to be more words in the silence. "I'm just going to shower, okay? We should--"

 _You can't say 'go to bed'!_ his mind shrieked hysterically at him, which wasn't much more helpful than the frozen silence.

"--get, get some rest. Right? Lots of work tomorrow, right? Hunting, and all that."

Sam nodded and smiled placatingly as if Dean were a spooked animal. "Okay. Yeah." He stared at Dean. "You're okay? For now?"

"Of course."

In the shower, Dean scrubbed every inch meticulously, patted down and moisturized, then tweezed, squeezed, toned and moisturized some more until he was soft and perfect and groomed all over. He felt much better. He was _totally_ fine.

\--

Sam was odd and careful around him in the morning until Dean wiped one too many imaginary spots fastidiously off his car. Then Sam got visibly annoyed, and Dean grinned, because that had been the point. Whatever -- _whatever_ had happened, Sam's moment of insanity, there was no reason for things to be bad between them, because it was fine, and he didn't like it when Sam looked tense and awkward around him. Sam had always been this eager relaxed comfortable presence around Dean, and he liked that; not many people were that comfortable around him. Most people were intimidated or trying to close a deal with him or trying to hit on him -- which, well, whatever. Sam wasn't -- doing that most of the time, it was just -- a moment. Anyway.

"You jerk," said Sam, half wary, half amused, half annoyed, and that may have been too many halves but Dean frankly didn't care.

"Now, Sam," said Dean firmly, "just because you went insane doesn't mean things need to be weird." He almost believed it himself. "Come on -- we're going to be in Everett, where it's all been going on, in a few hours, right? We need to make a plan of action! Logic, schedules, bullet points -- I'm good at that."

Sam looked at him with a grin. "You are, huh? Never woulda guessed."

"You don't get to be a director of sales and marketing by just rocking the suits, you know," said Dean loftily, "I am kind of awesome and smart and can plan the hell out of a marketing campaign. This should be easy."

Sam settled back into the passenger seat, twisted slightly to look at Dean, face relaxed and curious. "So where do we start, genius?"

"Lay out the facts for me," said Dean confidently.

Sam cleared his throat. "Three white males aged between forty-five and sixty-eight, all died in the past month, due to body impact injuries that were ruled accidents -- falling down stairs, or similar; but the injuries look, according to a couple of bemused coroner reports I found doing some digging, like nothing more than the marks that would come from being beaten with a thin wooden paddle -- which, of course, is ridiculous, because it's almost impossible to be beaten hard enough to _die_ with an object like that. That's all we have to go on -- no obvious links between the vics except they're all over forty-five and have all grown up in the town. But I'm sure there's much more to it. The police half been half-heartedly investigating, and there've been a couple of small local media pieces on it, but no-one seems to have really picked up on the strangeness of the injuries or made much of a connection. So that's all we have."

"Okay," said Dean. "So usually that would be enough to start putting together a general picture of the overall concept and aims, but we know that there's more information out there, so we need to verify and expand what we have."

"Before we can make any decisions and figure things out. Right. And because it's likely to be weird stuff, unexplainable, or things that people don’t think are relevant because they don't understand how it could be related or useful, it won't be in any official records."

"Right! Like -- P.T Sandover's glove. We only knew that might be useful or connected because of what we learned about ghosts. No one else would have mentioned it."

"So we need to get all the possible information we can, including that which we can't get from 'official sources'." Sam's long, elegant fingers curled around air-quotes, and Dean looked away.

"Exactly. So we talk to people who actually know things -- people who were there, or knew the victims -- friends and family and stuff."

"Exactly." Dean grinned over at Sam, feeling -- better. The start of genuine excitement was fizzing around in his veins, an echo of that feeling that had washed through him after they'd killed P.T Sandover and looked at each other; a little flash of something that told him he hadn't made the wrong choice dropping everything like a crazy person and running out on the road with a guy he barely knew.

"So where do we start?"

"Well, we have all the victim's first names, and--" Sam flipped through a stack of papers that he'd magicked up from somewhere -- Dean had no idea where Sam had dragged up this research from but he seemed kind of a natural at it. "And we have the name of the first guy's wife, so I say we pay her a visit."

"And say what? We can't just randomly start asking questions about her dead husband, that's not very nice."

Sam laughed. "Nice! Dude, none of this is about being nice, it's about saving more people." He shrugged. "We'll come up with something."

"Lying comes unnaturally easily to you."

"You need to let go of this idea that we need to stick to any kind of normal _rules_ , Dean, seriously. The bigger picture is what's important here -- the end goal, you know? We bend and break a few rules--"

"Or laws," said Dean darkly.

"--along the way, who cares? Look, we'll just say we're -- I don't know, doing a piece for the newspaper or something."

"Do I look like a reporter to you?"

Sam smirked. "Sure you do! We'll just pop a pocket protector and some pens in your shirt pocket and bam, instant journalist-chic."

\--

Sam didn't look quite so confident when they were standing outside the gate leading up the neat path to Mrs. Donnell's house, after having dropped their stuff off at a motel on the edge of town -- _base camp_ as Sam had insisted on calling it.

Dean clutched at his notebook. "Stealing _guns_ is fine and fun for you, but we're about to tell a white lie to a little old lady and suddenly you're all nervous?"

Sam shrugged and swiped at his hair; it kept falling unruly over his forehead. "I don't know! I haven't done this before! I don't want to look stupid! Or, I don't know, really upset her!"

"Says Mr. there's-a-bigger-picture," hissed Dean. "Pull yourself together!"

"Pull your _mom_ together," snapped Sam, back, brows drawing down low, when the door at the other end of the pathway squeaked open.

She wasn't exactly a _little old lady_ , in her late forties, but she looked harmless enough. She quirked her eyebrow. "Gentlemen? Can I help you with something?"

Sam started visibly and Dean had to swallow a grin. "Ah! Yes! Sorry, ma'am -- I -- we -- yes."

Dean stepped forward. "We're running a piece on, ah, on the tragic recent deaths in the community, a sort of memorial for these -- brave men, to try and -- celebrate their, their lives." He winced internally, but Mrs. Donnell looked slightly misty-eyed and waved them in.

"Yes, yes," she said, "I'm happy to talk, quote me on anything you like." She brushed carefully at her hair, and Dean thought, _thank goodness for attention seekers_.

"We're _very_ much going to be focusing on the people they've left behind, how their lives have been touched -- friends and family and such," said Sam smoothly, and exchanged a glance with Dean, having clearly noticed Mrs. Donnell's eager sort of expression. "Really give them a voice."

"Oh, an excellent idea," she said. "I mean, I know I've been deeply, deeply affected. My life will _never_ be the same." Her words were sympathy-inducing, but the sparkle in her eyes made it a little difficult for Dean to feel too sorry for her.

"You found your husband after the -- accident, yes?"

"Oh, yes," she said dramatically. "It was _horrible_. My poor Jerry -- he was so horribly disfigured, it raised goosebumps all over me and I was cold all over with shock."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look.

"It was cold when you found him?" said Dean.

"Um, no," she said. "Like I said. It was the sheer _horror_ of the situation."

"Of course, of course. But you got goosebumps?"

She blinked, and Sam coughed and quickly stepped in.

"Mrs. Donnell, we can't imagine how terrible it was for you. What was it like, how you found him? Was there, um, much blood?"

Dean winced, but Mrs. Donnell seemed eager to latch onto the change to luridly describe just how horrible it had been. "No, he wasn't bleeding, but he was bruised, all over, all these stripes, on his arm and face and everywhere I could see, it was just -- _awful_. I screamed and screamed."

Dean nodded comfortingly. "What do you think your husband might have been doing that lead to the accident?"

She frowned. "Well, he probably fell down the stairs -- he'd been in the kitchen, he had flour in his hair for some reason, and I found him in the basement -- he must have fallen down the stairs, it explains the lines of bruises, you know, the edges of the steps or something. Whatever -- it was _so_ horrible for me, you won't believe. I've barely slept since. Everyone's been so nice -- calling and coming around and letting me just -- talk, you know. It helps, it helps to talk, to tell people about how I've been, what it was like, I'm so grateful, that people care, I'm so deeply affected, I sometimes don't know how I'm going to carry _on_ , but it really helps -- especially when I can talk to people, such lovely boys like yourselves, like I said, I'm happy to be quoted, anything, I'm willing for photos if you need any, really, I'm happy to help--"

"I can, um, yes, right," cut in Dean, sharing a wide-eyed look with Sam. "Just -- was there anything--" He cast his mind around for a tactful to say _weird going on_ and came up blank. "--weird going on?"

Mrs. Donnell frowned at him in confusion. "I -- what on earth do you mean? Apart from my husband's sudden and horrible _death_?"

Sam had his hand over his face.

"I didn't -- sorry, I mean--" fumbled Dean. "I'm, uh, new at this. Just certain -- questions we're told to ask -- for a story, we, I, uh."

He trailed off and Mrs. Donnell looked less eager than before, probably figuring out they weren't here to stroke her ego and attention-seeking needs as much as she liked.

"Well," said Sam too loudly, "I think we have everything we need for a really -- touching piece. I'll make sure you're -- quoted and named and thanked. Effusively. Thank you, we'll just, have a nice day, thank you, bye!"

They walked swiftly back down the path and Sam snatched the notebook from Dean. "Let me do the talking next time," he snapped, and Dean scowled.

" _Reporters_ was your idea! I didn't see you saying hardly anything useful! We're going to be concerned long lost relatives for the next person!"

"Fine!"

\--

"George never mentioned any nephews, I really think I would have--" Mrs. Kent was a fair bit older than Mrs. Donnell had been and a lot more reticent.

Dean pasted on his best charming grin. "Three times removed from -- an estranged member of the family. But we remember Uncle George from when we were children, he made a real impression on us, didn't he, Sammy?"

Sam visibly bit back a scowl, and smiled widely instead at Mrs. Kent. "He sure did. Dean here was such a scoundrel as a ten year old, it was only Uncle George who could ever get him to sit still."

Sam had an unfair advantage over little old ladies, with those dimples -- Mrs. Kent positively simpered and let them in without another word. "Ah, my George was a scoundrel too as a boy, or so I've heard. Never gave his poor schoolteachers a break. He probably sensed a kindred spirit."

Sam smiled and clasped her hand kindly. "Oh, yes, we've heard! We never got to know that much about Uncle George, though -- we didn't see him once we were older. Could you -- maybe tell us a bit about him? I want to feel like I -- I knew, him, you know? To really pay my respects."

Mrs. Kent smiled softly and nodded them to sit down on the couch. "Tea?"

Nearly two hours later Dean's belly felt uncomfortably full with weak milky tea and too-sweet crumbly sugar cookies -- dear god, he was glad he wasn't counting points right now, he was sure he'd be horrified -- and his head was stuffed full with way more dull information about a dull old guy's entire life than he'd ever wanted to know.

He and Sam walked out, waving and smiling, and walked two blocks over before they stopped and stared blankly at each other like they'd forgotten how to speak after being assaulted for so long by Mrs. Kent's rambling endless stories about her deceased husband. Sam cast a hunted glace around. "Are -- are we really free?"

Dean cleared his throat. "I think I've just developed a life-long phobia of sugar cookies. Which I suppose is good for my diet. Oh my _god_."

Sam shook his head. "I don't even know if we got any useful information from that. I need a nap before we find the next person to interview. If it's another little old lady, I'm running for the hills and never coming back."

"No, Sam, we need to get this done today, I feel like we're -- just on the edge of something! Where's your stamina, huh?"

Sam quirked an eyebrow at that, and Dean carried on hurriedly, fumbling with some papers he'd folded in his pocket. "Anyway, I think -- yeah, the third victim was unmarried, found by his older brother who also lives in town. What angle are we gunning for here?"

"Uh, I dunno. College students doing a paper?"

"Aren't we a little bit too old?"

"Speak for yourself, I've got youth on my side."

Dean spluttered in outrage as Sam smirked, and shoved a hand in his pocket to stop himself feeling worriedly at the corners of his eyes.

"Anyway," said Sam, "you're never too old for education."

Dean rolled his eyes.

The brother of the last victim lived in a frankly unpleasant run-down house towards the edge of town -- seemingly the bad edge. Dean fidgeted nervously with the cuff of his Henley -- a goddamn Henley, even if he'd told Sam that college students could totally wear business shirts. Sam grabbed his wrist with a scowl, warm and firm grip, and the door opened before Dean could glare at Sam and tell him to knock it off.

The guy that peered out looked pissed off with the world in general, and frowned at them through rheumy eyes and a fall of scraggy salt and pepper hair. "Yeah?" he said -- growled, really.

Dean blinked, hoping his eyes weren't open as wide as they felt. He probably looked like a startled rabbit.

Sam was silent in a faintly alarmed sort of way for a moment, too, until he cleared his throat and forced on a smile. "Hi! We're very sorry to take up your time, but -- we're, ah, college students hoping to do, um, a local history paper, a retroactive look at some members of the community who've -- passed, uh, passed away. So -- we were wondering if you wouldn't mind speaking to us for just a short while about your brother, Ed Sampson?"

The guy looked between them for long enough that Dean felt sweat spring up on the back of his neck and his breathing picked up.

The guy sneered. "Bit old for college, ain't you?"

"You're never too old for education," Dean said solemnly, and feeling Sam start with silent laughter, he felt calmer. He smiled soothingly at the guy. "We'd be really grateful if we could just chat with you for five minutes." The guy didn't move to let them in, but didn't slam the door in their faces; just remained half hidden by the door, eyeing them steadily. Dean smiled again encouragingly. "Well -- my name's Dean Smith and this is my -- assignment partner, Sam Wesson--"

"Smith and Wesson. Uh-hyuh."

Dean blinked. "Uh. Yes?"

"Right. And my name's _John Smith_."

"No, your name's Christopher Sampson, isn't it? Unless we have the wrong--"

"Excuse my partner," said Sam quickly, as it clicked for Dean. Huh. That was a bit odd, actually. But excuse _him_ if gun manufacturers weren't at the front of his mind. Christopher looked more relaxed, now, as if it somehow calmed him that he believed they were using fake names; like he felt more comfortable in the presence of liars than college students. Dean frankly felt ten times more _un_ comfortable knowing that.

"Education," Christopher said now, and spat to the side. Dean nearly strained something in resisting the impulse to leap away in horror. "Never had time for it myself."

"What about your brother? Did Ed go to college?"

Dean glanced over at Sam quickly. _Huh_?

Sam flicked a look back, and Dean could almost hear him. _Just a hunch. Let me go with it_.

Christopher pulled a face. "Ed went to one of those fancy schmancy schools as a kid, he was the smart one, but he weren't cut out for the life. He got suspended time after time until they kicked him out just because he didn't like to keep a load of dumb rules." He spat again. "Real men make their own rules."

Because that wasn't a dangerous line of thought at all for people who considered themselves _real men_ like this douche clearly did. However -- Dean could see why Sam had gone for that hunch, now. Mrs. Kent hadn't shut up for a good twenty minutes about the little terror her late husband had apparently been to his schoolteachers. This could very well be a pattern.

"Well -- thank you very much, Mr. Sampson," said Sam. "I think that's all we need -- we'll stop taking up your time."

"Hey!" The hoarse shout caught them before they could get very far. Dean grimaced and reluctantly tuned back. He was rather eager to get _out_ of there.

Christopher spat once more. "You're about as much college students as I am a glamour model, _Smith and Wesson_ ," he said, and Dean went cold with the momentary horror of that mental image. "But you're looking into Ed, and I think you wanna help, so. You might like to know he was covered all over in chalk dust when I found him."

Sam tilted his head. "Chalk dust?"

Christopher nodded. "Yeah. Found him in his attic, so po- _lice_ said it was regular dust, but I know that look and smell, even if I weren't much for school. Chalk dust all over. Don't make no sense, I know, but I think it's -- something."

"Thank you, Mr. Sampson," said Sam slowly. "That might actually be very helpful."

Mr. Sampson nodded. "You just -- sort it out. Whatever done it."

"We will," said Dean, suddenly flush with the warmth of confidence that they _would_.

Christopher spat one last time and slammed the door. Sam and Dean turned and raised an eyebrow at each other. "Well," they said together.

\--

"Okay," said Sam as they headed back to base camp. "This school connection is definitely something we need to think about."

Dean nodded. "Uh-huh. No way this is all a coincidence." He grinned, suddenly excited again -- figuring it all out was such a weird thrill, way better than just closing a deal, way better than the feeling when he finished a really difficult sudoku, better than _anything_. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He hoped they'd figure it out really soon. Maybe they'd get to _burn_ something again. That would be kind of awesome, though maybe they should add a portable fire extinguisher to the car, just in case; they didn't want anything getting out of hand.

He shook his head as he realized Sam was saying something. "--so I'm betting the flour that the first victim had in his hair was actually chalk dust."

Dean nodded. "So we have two who were known trouble makers at school, and two bodies with chalk dust on. I'm pretty sure we can extrapolate and say all three victims had both characteristics in common."

Sam smirked when Dean said _extrapolate_ but didn't say anything. "So along with the _thrashing_ injuries we have some weird sort of old fashioned school connection going on. Say -- maybe someone or something has a grudge against them from being brats at school. Ghost of a bullied classmate, maybe?"

Dean pursed his lips. "Maybe. How do we find out more?"

"Library."

Excellent. Dean liked libraries. They were so calm. Not that he needed to calm down, Dean felt -- totally fine. The shelf in his mind was nice and full behind a totally secure door and, you know, everything was fine. He was hunting ghosts, he was going to save lives, he was remembering why this was _fun_ , and if some grating alarm started buzzing in the back of his head if Sam looked at him or he looked at Sam that tiny bit too long, he slammed that door extra firm and he was _fine_ because whatever, there was nothing to even worry about.

\--

Sam's fingers were flying over the keyboard and Dean was decidedly less calm than he felt he should be in a library. He wasn't quite sure what Sam was doing but he was pretty sure those records weren't something he should be able to look at on a public library computer.

"Okay," said Sam, "I've pulled up education records -- pretty locked up, or so the local council likes to think but seriously, I could hack into this with my feet -- and the next piece of the puzzle is obvious but dovetails nicely with what we've got already -- all the victims went to the same school."

"Wow," said Dean, impressed and almost alarmed. "You're just a never-ending well of criminal activity."

Sam gave Dean a look. "You want me to stop?"

"No, it's awesome, useful, impressive! Various good adjectives! It's just a bit scary, too. But mostly impressive!"

Sam grinned. "You don't work in tech support without picking a little something up. You need to know how a thing works and what it can do in order to be able to fix it well, and in learning that, you generally learn -- what you can do with something even if you're not technically supposed to."

"So what more do we know, geek boy?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "We know that not only did they all go to the same school, it was an expensive and elite school -- private, all boys, pretty strict and old fashioned by the look of it, uniforms and such."

"Haunted school?"

Sam twisted his mouth. "Maybe, I dunno -- why go after them _now_? The school was closed down ten years ago -- I'm doing a search -- ah. Ah _ha_."

"What? _What_?" said Dean eagerly, craning his head and crowding up behind Sam to see.

Sam swatted irritably at him. "Gimme some space, you lunatic. Ah _ha_ , because a month ago, a guy died -- he'd been a _teacher_ at this school. Mr. Doug Harrison. Longest serving member of staff, worked there his entire adult life until the school closed, even worked there ten years beyond his official retirement."

"Oh my god," said Dean, grinning, "it must be him! These kids made his life hell when he was a teacher, and now he's dead, he's finally getting the revenge he couldn't get in school. Let's find out where he's buried, come on!"

Sam's eyes were bright, too, but he bit his lip. "No," he said, "We can't just dig up some old guy and _burn_ him just because we think we're right. We're going on guesswork and coincidences -- we need to get enough evidence so we're _sure_."

Dean groaned dramatically and flopped back into his chair. "Oh my god why are you so boring."

"Boring? Me? Who was it that was all worried about breaking the law and stuff earlier? Stop pouting."

"I am not! I don't know. Maybe I got a taste for it now. I wanna _do_ something."

"If you're this excitable and jumpy I won't let you come with me to interview the granddaughter."

"That's not fair!"

"I'll leave you in the motel!"

"You wouldn't!"

Sam's grin was blinding. "Make you face the wall, time out, no candy--"

" _No fair_ \--"

After they got unceremoniously kicked out of the library for being too noisy, Dean grinned over at Sam. "You know where we're going to find the granddaughter? Promise I'll behave."

Sam held up a sheet of paper. "Yep. Don't doubt my researching awesomeness. And if she tells us enough to be sure, I even know where he's buried."

The granddaughter was a mousy, timid young woman, though she seemed okay with their story about the book they were writing on the history of the area, and the chapter they were doing on the school including its most loyal staff member.

She chuckled. "Grandad loved teaching, he was why I decided to be a teacher, but you wouldn't know he loved it, how much he complained about it. But he must have, you know? To do it so long. Even though the boys at that school were a real nightmare -- he always complained about it, complaining was his favorite thing. He was such a typical cranky old man, you know? He'd always say -- bring back the paddle! Let me paddle them! But the headmaster was strict about it, no punishment in his school, he said, even though Grandad appealed a bunch of times. He always said that to me. Bring back the damn paddle, that'll learn 'em good! He even had one, this old fashioned, like, carved thing he kept in his office just to scare the boys, but it never really worked 'cause they knew he couldn't use it. Mom always told him he shoulda moved to Missouri or one of those bible belt states, you know, it's completely legal there, but he said that wasn't the point, that it was _these_ boys who needed it -- I don't know. He always had a real bee in his bonnet about it." She blushed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to go on."

Sam caught Dean's eye and grinned broadly. "No, miss, that's just _great_ , that's really helpful. Thank you so much."

She blushed even more in the face of Sam's bright smile, and Dean -- certainly wasn't jealous, of course. She was just a mousy little kindergarten teacher. Not that it would matter if she was a gorgeous buxom beauty, because why would Dean care if Sam flirted with anyone? Jesus.

Still. He grinned when Sam turned all his attention right back to Dean as soon as they left the house. His smile and eyes were bright in the dusk that was falling over the town -- it had been a long and extremely busy day, but adrenaline was buzzing in Dean's veins and he was eager to get to the graveyard, _do_ something, kill this son of a bitch. "You don't need any more verification, right?" said Dean, and resisted clapping his hands together when Sam shook his head.

"Base camp, change, get shovels, graveyard! Right?"

"Where the hell are we going to get shovels from? We'll need shovels, right?" said Dean. He hadn't really thought about how they were going to get to and burn the bones except for a vague happy excited concept of _fire_!!

Sam looked pleased with himself. "Noticed a little maintenance shed around the back of the motel. Totally easy to get into, had shovels and all sorts shoved in there. We can take a couple."

Dean shook his head in awe. "Criminal in the making, what did I say."

"We're just _borrowing_ them!"

\--

Dean gripped the handle of his shovel, unsure. "Uh," he said, and poked at the hard-packed earth, feeling somewhat dismayed.

Sam sighed and swiped his hair back from his face. "What? Come on, it took us like an hour to find his grave, let's get him dug up and burned so we can congratulate ourselves and then shower and _sleep_."

Dean twisted his mouth. "I know, but--" He poked at the ground again. "This -- I mean, I didn't really think about the fact we have to dig him up. Like, all the _way_."

Sam jabbed his shovel down into the earth and leaned on it. "How else did you think we were going to get to his bones?"

Dean gestured helplessly. "I don't know. I didn't think. This just looks -- like it will be a lot of work. A lot of messy work."

"Don't tell me you're afraid to get your hands dirty."

Dean really didn't know how to respond to that without blushing, so he grabbed hold of his shovel and dug it into the ground near Sam, muttering.

Two hours later and Dean's hands felt rubbed raw and his back was screaming at him. "Oh my _god_ ," he said, panting, wiping sweat from his forehead, "six feet under is _so much deeper_ than you think it's going to be before you're _digging it_."

Sam grinned and tossed another shovelful of earth up and out of the grave, his hands strong and capable on the shovel, shoulders moving smoothly and arms bulging with muscle. Dean hated him a little bit. Not that wasn't perfectly fit himself, but he didn't feel quite as -- graceful as Sam looked. Not that he was taking any particular notice of how Sam looked, the gleam of sweat over his skin glinting in little flashes in the cool moonlight, the smear of gravedirt over his cheekbones.

"--quit your whining," Sam was saying, then, "--ah!" as his shovel thunked down with a decisive wooden sound.

It was a hollow noise, and something about it -- the faint sound of splintering wood, mixed with the chill of the night air, the rich earthy smell of the dirt rising around them -- combined to give Dean the most _intense_ blast of déjà vu he'd ever had. "Whoa," he said, steadying himself with a hand against the damp wall of earth that was the side of the grave.

He narrowed his eyes at Sam, waiting to know what Sam was going to say next before he said it, but Sam just grinned and said, "I know, right? We're nearly there!" and that didn't really feel like Dean had known he was going to say that, so he figured the déjà vu had passed, but still. _Weird_.

Just then, as Sam was scraping away a layer of dirt from the splintered wood of the top of the coffin, the wind picked up -- _really_ picked up, a gale sweeping over the top of the open grave and stirring Sam's hair. They looked at each other, and started as an unearthly screeching howling filled the air.

"Oh my god," said Sam, "I bet that's our ghost. I bet that's Mr. Harrison."

Dean _recognized_ it, then, the feeling in the air -- he'd felt it in the bathroom in Sandover for the first time, and every time P.T Sandover had shown his face after that -- a snapping sharp smell of ozone in the air, but more than a smell, a feeling that prickled the hairs on his arms.

"What do we _do_?" he yelled, trying to be heard over the wailing, but it felt pretty good to yell to because _oh my god there was a ghost trying to kill them_!

Sam pointed at Dean. "Stay here! Get the coffin open, and burn him! There're shotguns with salt in our bags, I'm going to stand guard, stop him stopping _us_!"

Sam was going _up there_? "Sam, _no_ , let me--" he said, but Sam was scrambling up out of the grave ignoring him, and Dean was kind of shocked he'd volunteered, to be honest. It was probably an illusion of safety down in the grave but it certainly felt better than standing up there all exposed would be, but for some reason the thought of _Sam_ up there was scarier than the thought of being up there himself. What if--?

The wailing slipped into a higher, more frantic register, and Dean snapped into motion -- if he got the bones uncovered and burned, the sooner the ghost would be gone and wouldn't be doing anything to Sam.

He scraped at the dirt with his shovel, getting most of the coffin uncovered -- and that was more difficult than you'd think when you were also standing on the coffin -- and smashed frantically at the wooden lid, before realizing that wasn't working, the coffin was too new and thick, and he squashed himself to the side and scrabbled for the edge to lift the lid up, barely even worrying about how much dirt was going to get under his fingernails. He did take a moment to decide he was treating himself to one _hell_ of a manicure after this.

The wailing resolved itself into what sounded like someone screaming _no!_ Above that, clearer, was suddenly Sam -- "Oh my god! Oh my fucking--"

"Sam!" shouted Dean, hauling up the side of the coffin, nearly smacking himself in the nose with the handle of the shovel which was resting on the lid.

There was the loud _bang_ of a shotgun, then Sam's triumphant voice. "Oh my god, yes, it worked! I totally got him! He just -- _swooshed_! Told you we'd need these -- oh, shit, oh my fucking god, oh fu--"

The coffin lid banged up against the side of the wall at the same time Dean heard Sam's scream and the thick, horrible sound of something slamming hard into something else.

" _Sam_!" he screamed, and felt the blood drain from his face when there was no answer. Underneath him, Mr. Harrison lay -- and at a month and a bit dead, he was less _bones_ and more _corpse_ ; the smell of him rose up thick and _gross_ and Dean realized distantly that he should really be freaking out and vomiting right now, but all he could think was _burn him burn him get to Sam_. He fumbled with the accelerant and squirted it liberally all over the disgusting wrinkled bag of skin that was Mr. goddamn _Harrison_ , then hauled himself out of the grave into the wind which buffeted at his hair and bit cold at his sweat-damp skin. The wind dropped as he pulled matches from his pocket, but it just scared him more, like the ghost was gearing up for another attack, and his fingers shook. It took him four tries to light a match, screaming " _Fuck fuck fuck_!" into the still night air before he finally dropped it in, and the grave went up with a satisfying _whoosh_.

Dean couldn't appreciate the fire, though; he was swinging his head around frantically, squinting into the dimness to find Sam. The flames leaped high and in the light he finally saw him, slumped at the bottom of a tree.

" _Sam_!" he screamed again, feeling like he'd forgotten how to say anything else. He ran towards him, falling to his knees in front of him as relief flooded him when he saw Sam moving.

"Ow, oh my god," said Sam clutching his head and looking around. "We got him?"

"Yes. Oh my god," said Dean, and leaned in and kissed him.

\--

"Well knock me down and shake my _tailfeather_ ," said Zachariah.

Castiel was fairly sure there was something wrong with that expression, but he wasn't quite sure how it was meant to go, so he shut his mouth, which had most definitely not been hanging open in surprise. "Wow. Well. I didn't think he'd be the one to make the next move."

Zachariah looked at him, face positively gleeful. "Right?"


	3. Chapter 3

Sam's lips were soft and tasted of sweat and maybe grave dirt. Dean pulled back and patted Sam down frantically. "Are you okay? Don't do that again, oh my god, are you okay? Sam! Oh my god!"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, my head hurts, did I just imagine that?"

"Uh," said Dean. "No."

Sam smiled up at him. "I should've nearly gotten myself killed sooner, if it was going to get it through your thick skull. Do it again."

Den started to protest -- he didn't have a thick skull, he just -- but Sam was dragging him down with a big hand on the back of his neck and they were kissing again.

"Oh my god," he mumbled into Sam's mouth, feeling dizzy, "we just totally killed a ghost."

Sam pulled back; his mouth was red and wet and his eyes were bright and Dean felt drunk. "Yeah we did. Again. Because we're awesome."

Dean kissed him again. "I want you so much, what the hell, Jesus Christ. I feel like I'm going insane."

Sam laughed against his lips. "Well, duh. You've wanted me since the first time you saw me just like I've wanted you, I just didn't want to mess this up."

"You kissed me first!"

"I know. I couldn't resist. That was way too soon, you went all freaked and defensive and Mr. Denial. I was prepared to wait you out for _months_. Thank you for not taking months. Kiss me again."

Dean felt like things were melting and exploding inside of him all at once and he had no idea how he'd managed to ignore this brain-melting flood of desire that made him feel drunk when he looked at Sam. It was like the adrenaline rush of the ghost and the fear of Sam being hurt had just burst open that box on the shelf, and his mind left was a ransacked mess and it felt amazing. Maybe he should be terrified of this -- Sam, Sam was a _guy_ , Dean didn't -- wasn't -- but his blood was hot and racing in him and he was filled with reckless energy that made him want to scream and shout and get _naked_. Fuck everything else.

He put his hands on the side of Sam's face and kissed him, got his lips around Sam's tongue and sucked, and Sam's deep groan tickled along his lips. "We need to get back to the motel," Dean gasped, and Sam's hands landed on his hips and tugged until Dean fell forward into Sam's _lap_ , and his knees slotted around Sam's hips and oh _god_.

"Yeah we do," said Sam. but they didn't get up, just carried on kissing and pushing together, until a gentle gust of wind blew the smell of smoke and burning flesh towards them and they pulled apart.

"Yeah," said Sam, "yeah, okay, motel for sure."

\--

"Let's say we tune in a little later. Tomorrow morning or so," said Zachariah hastily.

Castiel already had his hands over his eyes, and just nodded rather frantically.

\--

"How -- oh -- god -- h-how do you _know_?" said Dean; Sam had him shoved up against the motel door the second they'd gotten in, and he was sucking at Dean's neck, this wet soft pressure that made Dean feel like he was on fire, it was _amazing_ , Sam's mouth was amazing, there should be _awards_. "How do you always just know? You knew -- you knew we should hunt and that we'd be good at it and it was what we were meant to -- to do, and you knew we should do _this_ , and -- oh, fuck, it's amazing, and I -- how do you always know?"

Sam kissed up his neck to his mouth, to drop a strangely tender kiss on his lips considering the dirty way his thigh was shoved up between Dean's legs. "Because like I always said -- I look at you and I _know_ you, somewhere deeper than I know regular things like my name or how to tie my shoes. It just -- I know, man, that you and me -- we're it. We're meant to be right here, right now, doing all this."

Dean felt too big inside, hot and turned on and breathless and sort of -- embarrassed, but in a good way, because he knew what Sam meant. He recognized Sam somewhere deeper, too, and it was way too much to think about right now so he closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the wall, shoved up into the pressure of Sam's long, hard thigh and let his body wipe out the chaos in his mind.

He could feel Sam smile against his mouth. "Me too, Dean."

"Shut up and suck me, Sammy," said Dean, and Sam laughed, the fucker, but he was sliding to his knees, oh dear god in heaven.

He slid his hand into Sam's hair in awe, breathless as he watched Sam nuzzle into the line of his cock; Sam was so fucking pretty from this angle, the soft line of his eyelashes and the shape of his mouth, but it wasn't -- he was most definitely male. But then he looked up, wide evil grin, and he was just _Sam_ , his smug confident stubborn gorgeous -- whatever Sam was to him. It was _Sam_ , and that was all that mattered. That and the fact Dean's dick was hard and Sam's mouth was so _close_.

"Come on," he urged, rolling his hips towards Sam's face; Sam shoved him back still against the door with a strong hand, and Dean shuddered all over -- wow, okay, Sam was strong, that was. Nice. Sam was pulling his zipper down, slow but sure, then getting Dean's cock out with a fierce, eager look on his face, before he sucked it down.

Dean made a noise he'd never heard out of his own mouth before and curled forward, shoulders coming off the door, body curving around where Sam was sucking him, strong and wet and amazing. "Oh, god, how -- where did you -- fuck, oh my god, did you pick up _this_ in tech support too? Don't tell me, oh shit oh my _god_ \--"

Sam pulled off with a wet slurping noise that made Dean's belly tighten. "Shut up," said Sam, though he was still smiling.

"I don't think I can," gasped Dean. Sam made him feel like his head might just fall off and babbling seemed the only way to cope with it. "Oh my god, please -- carry on, do that again, I need--"

Sam ran his tongue up the length of Dean's cock, then stood up.

"No," whined Dean.

Sam raised an eyebrow and started pulling off his clothes, tugging off hoody and shirt and t-shirt in graceful quick movements.

"Um, okay, _yes_ ," reconsidered Dean as the smooth expanse of Sam's skin was revealed; Dean had never wanted to put his hands on someone more, so he did, tugging Sam in close and running his hands all over Sam's chest and broad back, stricken at how fucking _soft_ it was, smooth and slightly tacky with sweat that Dean wanted to _taste_ ; and sweat was usually near the top of his list of gross things, so that was a big deal. His mouth watered and he ducked in, pressed his lips to Sam's chest and dragged his tongue across it slowly, swallowed the slight sharp salty tang.

"Oh, shit, yeah," whined Sam, one big hand on the back of Dean's neck, slowly pushing at him until Dean's tongue slid over Sam's nipple; Dean took it lightly between his teeth, sucked at it.

Sam's other hand caught Dean's wrist and slowly tugged his hand to between Sam's legs, pushed Dean's palm against the big swell of Sam's cock under his jeans. Oh jesus, oh jesus, that was his _cock_ , the shape and heat and size of it right _there_.

Dean moaned and slumped against Sam, the sudden rush of desire cresting in him washing away any ability to stand up straight because oh _god_ he wanted that; he pushed his palm firm against it, gripped as best he could, and felt the hitch of Sam's breath under where his hot face was pressed against his chest.

"Oh, man, you want it, don't you? You want it _so_ badly." Sam's voice rumbled through Dean, and he felt like if he said yes then whatever illusion he had of manly dignity would be gone -- but he wasn't about to say _no_ , either.

"Uh," he said instead -- always a useful placeholder for actual words -- and pulled back, tearing off his own clothes in a hurry because the sooner they were both naked the sooner he could -- see it. Oh fuck.

They stumbled and tripped out of their jeans and socks and underwear, and then Sam wrapped those hands around Dean's hips and practically _threw_ him on the bed. Dean felt reckless and crazy, energy frantic under his skin, and he arched backwards into the bed, every touch of the covers against his skin feeling good; he was aware and sensitized all over. His skin was still damp with sweat and dirt was still smeared over his hands and arm and caked under his fingernails, and he was dirty and needy and free. He spread his legs and Sam said, "Oh my god, you're such a slut for it," sounding delighted.

"Shut up and do something about it," said Dean, and Sam did; kneed up onto the bed and straddled Dean. "Fuck, your dick," said Dean, awed, and leaned up on his elbows to look. It was big and thick, like something out of a porno, curved up against Sam's flat belly. Sam leaned back a little, and Dean felt lightheaded at how Sam was just -- displaying it for him, how much Dean liked looking at it. Sam shifted until his balls were pressed flush against Dean's, this crazy intimate touch that had Dean flushing and his cock jerking wildly, moving all over his belly.

"You like my cock, huh?" said Sam. "I'm gonna fuck you with it. That's what you want, right?"

"Uh--"

Sam leaned forward, curving right over Dean, and kissed Dean's neck again, making him shiver. "Don't worry," he said, breath hot at Dean's ear, "I won't make you ask for it. Yet. Turn over."

Dean did, sucking in a breath as Sam's hands immediately landed on his ass, spreading him open slightly. His face flushed hot suddenly. "Oh -- Sam, I--"

Sam chuckled and shifted down, pressing kisses to Dean's spine in a row, getting lower, lower. He was -- was he really--?

His finger rubbed at Dean's asshole and Dean jumped, instinctively squeezing his legs together before he could stop.

"This is kind of an important ingredient to getting fucked," said Sam, but his voice was soft and he was rubbing circles into Dean's lower back. Dean -- _did_ know, of course, he may be riddled with issues and more than familiar with denial, he'd cop to that, but he wasn't a complete idiot about how gay sex was supposed to work, he just. That was his _ass_.

Sam's hands felt absolutely huge, each palm spread over each cheek, and Sam spread him open again, slowly, and -- that was the softness of Sam's lips pressing kisses to the inside of Dean's ass cheeks.

"Oh my god," said Dean, muffled into the pillow, and he may have repeated himself a few times as Sam started _licking_ him there, but vocabulary was the least of his worries right now. Sam was tonguing him confidently, wet insistent pressure at the tiny tight hole, and it felt so weird and wrong and really fucking _good_. Dean's instincts finally seemed to get on board with the plan and his legs spread _wider_ now, eager for more, more of that feeling, and Dean could feel when Sam got a finger up in there too, pressing along with his tongue and then slipping _in_ with the wetness of Sam's spit easing the way.

"Holy shit, you're in me," said Dean, and Sam grinned, his finger pushing in another inch, pushing a helpless whine from Dean's throat.

"Yeah I am. Feels good?"

"Y-yeah." It did -- the shock of something going _in_ was fading and the slight stretch felt -- odd but nice, and like he really wanted something more. "I -- more. I can take more."

"Can take it, or you want it? Tell me."

Dean huffed, but -- well, that kinda sounded like an order and it seemed Dean was fond of those. "Bastard. I _want_ it, I fucking want it, get another finger in me."

He heard the dirty wet sound of Sam spitting, and it should have been gross but Dean's stomach shivered with a clenching wave of arousal, and he moaned as he felt another finger pushing in. It almost hurt, this time, but he took a deep breath and bore down, and the two fingers slid deep, two knuckles in; the length of Sam's fingers right up inside him and feeling amazing. Then Sam started moving them, gentle thrusts in and out, and sensation skittered up his spine and an ache started up in the pit of his belly for oh god _more_.

"Yes, oh my god, just -- Sam, do it, come on, I want it."

Sam groaned and bit lightly at Dean, the line of his teeth set against the curve of Dean's ass. "Oh, god, yeah? You want me to fuck you? You ready?"

His fingers pushed in deeper and Dean moaned loudly. "Ohh -- yeah, yeah, put it in me, _please_ \--"

His ass felt empty and weirdly loose when Sam pulled his fingers out, and Dean made a noise, not even sure if it was good or bad but just knowing he needed something back in there now. "Sam--"

"Yeah, wait, wait there for me, I'm just getting -- wait--"

"Not like I'm exactly going anywhere."

The bed shifted and rocked as Sam got off, then back on, and Dean could hear the plastic rustle of a condom, the snap of a lid of a bottle or something, and his heart kicked sudden in his chest.

"Ready?" said Sam, and Dean just nodded frantically, gasping at the cold shock of Sam's fingers at his hole wet with something slippery. Two fingers slid in, slotting back into place, easier and slicker with whatever Sam was using, and Dean needed more, more. "Come on," he said, and Sam exhaled a shuddering breath.

"Yeah," he said, shifting, and then Dean could feel the press of something much bigger and blunter than two fingers against his hole.

He bore down against the head as Sam pushed slowly into him, but holy shit, it was big, way bigger than two fingers had felt. He could feel everything down there -- the shape of Sam's cockhead under the slick, the plasticy feel of the condom crinkling against the tightness, the burning stretch as Sam really started pushing in.

"Oh my god it's not going to fit," he said, shoving his forehead into the pillow and reminding himself of how good it had felt, and the ache to be filled was still roiling in his belly, but, but this was just too much.

"Oh, it'll fit, believe me," Sam said grimly, breathlessly, and rocked slightly; his cockhead wasn't fully in, just opening Dean up and pushing, getting a little further each time. After a while it felt like the fingers had, a good stretch, like Dean wanted more, so he nodded and hoped Sam got it. Sam pushed in, slowly, further, and they both let out ragged noises as his whole cockhead was in. It felt huge to Dean, it was insane that something that big was in him, but -- he breathed deep and it didn't hurt that much, now. His cock was pressed between his belly and the bed and it was rock hard, sticky wet and throbbing, and it felt amazing to rub it against the sheets whilst Sam's cock was holding him open; he nodded again and Sam pushed in, further, deeper.  
The ache got stronger as Sam got deeper in, a weird mix of something that was sort of pain, sort of stretch, but also something sharp and good tugging at his belly, and once Sam was in deep, the good, sharp feeling flared up so strongly Dean had to cry out at how -- how _good_ it was, oh christ.

One more slow inch and Sam was all in, stuffed up big and deep all the way inside, and Dean's head was spinning. "Yeah, I, okay, maybe it will fit," he said drunkenly, "oh my god. Move, move, fuck's sake, come _on_ \--"

"I was taking it slow for you--! I have the fuckin' patience of a saint--" gasped Sam, then he pulled out, long slick inches, and _rammed_ back in. Dean was too busy wailing in pleasure for a comeback.

Sam fucked like he _meant_ it, firm grip on Dean's hips and solid fast thrusts, his cock fucking deep and sure up into Dean, and it felt incredible. This -- this was what he'd wanted, the intensity of the sensations flooding him, the exertion as he shoved back against the rattling force of Sam's thrusts, the pure energy and need and the feel of his voice scratching his throat as he yelled it all out -- it was what his body had been craving since the graveyard, the incredible rush of the adrenaline and fear and getting that damn ghost, all winding up and exploding, and feeling _amazing_.

Sam was panting loud and horse, and fucked harder the louder Dean got. "Jesus christ," he gasped, "oh, shit, I knew it, I knew you'd love it, knew you were the kind of uptight that just begged a good fucking, I fucking knew you'd come apart on my dick, but I didn't -- god -- didn't know you'd be so goddamn made for cock, the way you're _taking it_ \--"

Dean was nearly sobbing into the pillow, and he cried out as Sam hauled him up to his knees. His dick missed the friction of the bed but Sam was getting deeper, like this, shoving so _good_ inside him he didn't need anything else, he was going to come like this, without Sam even _touching_ his dick, this was the craziest thing that had ever happened to him, and that included _killing ghosts_ , this was insane and amazing--

"Oh god, you're coming on my dick, aren't you, you're gonna," said Sam, snapping his hips against Dean's ass. "Oh god -- I'm gonna come all over you--"

"Oh fuck, do it," managed Dean, "get me all -- messy, come all over me." Sam all inside him, over him, on him, it seemed like the most amazing thing ever, he never wanted to be neat and tidy and clean again if he could be messy and dirty with Sam.

"You want me to mess you up, huh -- god, knew you'd be so fucking hedonistic under that control -- wanna, wanna rub it into your skin--"

Dean bit into the pillow and didn't even care about the ironic cliché of that because he was _coming_ , thick world-ending pumps of his dick, balls aching with the force of it, wetness splattering on his stomach and all over the bed under him.

Sam pulled out with a strangled noise, and Dean collapsed down into the mess he'd made; true to his word, Sam tore the condom off and came over Dean's ass and back, thick wet _hot_ lines of come like brands over Dean's skin.

Sam collapsed next to him, and they just lay there for a moment, panting hard. Afterglow buzzed pleasantly through Dean's body and he closed his eyes, feeling like he'd just been pummeled by the most expensive Swedish masseuse money could hire; like a wet noodle draped limply over the bed.

"Fuck," said Sam eventually, "I've wanted to do that since I saw you in that elevator."

Dean grinned, though he felt kind of weird, knowing Sam had been wanting that all along, like Dean was just an idiot for not realizing sooner; he put his arm over his eyes and breathed deep, getting his heart rate back under control. "Good thing I finally gave it up then, huh," he mumbled, throat feeling sore from all the yelling he'd been doing.

Sam laughed, then went quiet. "It's not just about that, Dean. You know that, right? It's not like I was lying about everything else just to fuck you."

 _Holy shit, I just got fucked,_ thought Dean, the idea clear and terrifying now the haze of _wanting_ to get fucked had faded. He closed his eyes tight under his arm as he remembered all the whining and begging he'd been doing; he felt embarrassed and weird and like there was no way he could look at Sam right now.

Sam touched him lightly on the arm, sucking in a breath as Dean jumped. "Hey, are you okay? I didn't -- I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Dean had to look at him then, because, that wasn't--

"No, he said firmly, "no, you didn't hurt me, I just--" He just what? He sat up and turned away, legs dropping off the edge of the bed. The afterglow was fading and his limbs felt weak and aching; the adrenaline was draining away and he was crashing, hard, exhaustion setting in deep. He felt tired and sore and confused and pressured.

"Dean."

Dean frowned and turned to look at Sam. Wouldn't Sam let him have his mini freak-out in peace?

Sam's eyes were soft and he was looking at Dean with this terrible scary intensity that was the last thing Dean could deal with. He just wanted to sleep for a million years -- his sleep schedule was fucked to all hell, he was going to look like he'd been punched in both eyes if he didn't get a good eight hours soon, and violence-chic had never been a look Dean could pull off, it really--

" _Dean_."

"What?" he snapped, getting up and turning to face Sam, who looked like he was posing for an -- erotic photo shoot or something, all fucked-out and long and beautiful laid out over the sheets. Dean looked at the wall instead. "What do you want me to say? You got what you wanted, right?"

That wasn't the problem at all, he didn't even believe it, but it made Sam frown, then stand up, naked and lovely and angry, arms crossed. "You know that's not it. You know that, Dean, you know me! I know you do! You know you're not just that to me -- or is that the problem, here? It's the fact it's _everything_ that you're scared of?"

Dean gestured helplessly. "I just got fucked by a man! I didn't even realize I wanted you before this evening! Give me some time to adjust!"

Sam bit his lip. "I know. I know it's a big deal. But just -- look at me and tell me that -- that this whole thing really means something to you. That you're not about to run away because you're scared."

Dean's heart was beating fast. Running away seemed like a pretty good option. His head hurt and he didn't want to think about this. He wanted to go home, he wanted to put on a suit and go sit in his office and know what he was supposed to say. He looked away from Sam, and suddenly craved that -- that easy emptiness, of Sandover, of being told what to do and having a schedule, lunch at twelve thirty, meeting at two, home at six, wake up, do it all again, knowing who he had to answer to. Now all he had to answer to was himself, and it was way too much. He barely knew who he was -- who Sam thought he was, who he wanted to be -- all this talk of what he was _meant_ to do or be, like it was so easy, and he had no clue.

"You're the one who dragged me out here!" he said instead of admitting he was scared, because -- that seemed even scarier. "This isn't my life, you just told me I should do this! All of this! I don't -- maybe I don't think I was meant for this, maybe I'm not the right person for -- this, for you--"

He was possibly hyperventilating at this point, his heart pounding like it was going to smash through his chest and lay him open and bare for Sam, vulnerable and spread _again_.

Sam was shaking his head. "This is where you're meant to be. I know it. With me."

Dean thought about that -- about opening the rest of his life with Sam, feeling this on edge and crazy and needy around him, like everything he was was tied up in this man, like he barely existed without him. "No," he said, "that's -- not me. You always just tell me that, like I'm meant to accept it -- what about how I feel! I -- it's not, not me, it can't be."

Sam looked down, then, corners of his mouth tugging in a way that made him look hurt. Dean felt angry and upset at that, like he wanted to stop whatever it was making Sam look like that, the surging protective instinct that only seemed to get stronger with time; but it was him, and couldn't very well punch himself in the face, even thought he sort of felt like it.

Sam was picking up his clothes from their scattered piles around the room, pulling them on, looking somehow smaller when he was dressed. "I know this is right, and _I'm_ sure, but -- but you're not. I'm not going to just sit around with you looking like -- look, we've done what we came to town to do, we got the ghost, and we both need a hell of a lot of sleep. I'll get another room for tonight."

"Sam--"

"Night, Dean."

\--

Dean had strange dreams that night. First he was competing in professional water buffalo racing and wearing overalls in a very unflattering shade of puce, but then he was in a car; it was a big beast of a car, with a low grumbling engine and a wide leather bench seat and terrible fuel efficiency, but it ate up the miles and felt comfortable under Dean's hands. Sam was in the passenger seat next to him, bitching about something or other with that expression Dean had grown to know, where he didn't care all that much about whatever it was but was doing it just for show, waiting for Dean's expected response. Sam's hair was soft and flopping over his forehead, and he ducked his head down to try and hide a sweet, shy smile. He looked younger than the Sam Dean knew, but it was clearly him -- the way he looked at Dean like Dean was _everything_ was familiar in an aching sort of way.

It stayed with him when he woke up. Sun was striking through the thin curtains and Dean flinched away, flopped over onto his other side. His first thought was _what the hell, water buffaloes?_ , before the sense memory of the second dream filtered through, as strong as if he were still dreaming it -- the smell of sun-warmed leather, the rumbling engine and car rushing over poorly surfaced back roads, the low wail of guitars, and over it all, this overwhelming feeling of contentment. His -- Sammy right there next to him, grinning at him, smelling clean and familiar, looking like everything Dean would ever want. He wasn't sure why Sam was younger in his dream, but it didn't really matter -- the feeling was the same as the one he got near his Sam. Like Sam was half of him, like he'd been there always and always would be.

Dean was refreshed and calm and suddenly extremely sure about things the way he very much hadn't been last night. He sat up, feeling the pull in his ass, and it just made him smile. He'd been an idiot, but that feeling of contentment was still strong and it seemed obvious, now, that Sam -- the person he'd had amazing sex with last night, the person who'd shown him over and over that he was meant for more than his other life, the boy in the car next to him in his dream -- was always going to be the person he'd be with. Who else was there ever going to be?

He opened the door -- he wasn't sure where Sam was going to be, but he'd find him, and then he had a whole bunch of apologies and if that didn't work, he'd heard make-up sex worked wonders.

It turned out to be fairly easy to find Sam's room. Three doors down from his own, a door was flung open, and Dean recognized Sam's hoodie on the floor, but the room was otherwise empty; but it was the sharp smell of ozone in the air that set Dean's heart racing. "Sam?" he said, then louder, "Sam? _Sam_!"

A door opened next to his. "Keep it down, will you?" said an irritable half-asleep dude with epic bedhead. "Christ, the noise in the place -- people fucking like nymphos last night, all this banging and wailing in the early hours, now you yelling your head off--"

Dean really hoped he wasn't blushing; this guy would probably not be too helpful if he realized Dean had been the one being rather noisy during said fucking. "What happened in the early hours? Tell me!"

The guy frowned at him. "Didn't you hear it? Doors flinging open, all this weird wailing, some guy shouting a name, woke me up and that really fucked me off 'cause it took me forever to get back to sleep 'cause it was fucking _freezing_. Surprised there ain't no frost this morning."

"I sleep heavy," he said. Which was true, especially after oh-so-slightly eventful days and nights like yesterday. He felt dizzy and cold and wanted to punch himself -- again -- for sleeping through whatever had happened. "What name was the guy shouting?" he demanded.

The guy's eyes widened as Dean stepped forward. "Chill out, dude, I don't know -- Gene or something. Keep it the fuck down, yeah, I'm sleeping."

It had definitely been Sam -- and the smell, the fact it was cold -- the ghost must have been here. Why the _hell_ had the ghost been here?

"Think, think, think," chanted Dean as he stormed back into his room and grabbed his bag, shoved a salt-loaded shotgun into it and tried not to do anything totally unhelpful like break down crying remembering Sam dragging him into stealing them. "Oh hell, oh hell, Sam, where are you, what's going _on_?"

His searching hands landed on a sheaf of papers -- a printout of information on the school that Mr. Harrison had taught at. Mr. Harrison, their ghost, who clearly _wasn't_ as gone as they'd thought. "It's, it's not always the bones," he said, remembering the Ghostfacers, P.T Sandover's glove. "It must be something else. We thought we'd done it, but he knew we were trying to stop him, he must have thought he'd stopped us when he knocked Sam unconscious, that was why he'd gone, maybe he thought he'd killed him, but then he came back last night to -- to finish the job? Oh my god." Why hadn't he gone for Dean? Dean had been in the grave -- maybe he hadn't seen him. He'd just gone for Sam. Where was Sam? If the ghost had tried to, to k-- Dean couldn't even think it. He grabbed his bag and the papers and headed to the school. It was the only place they hadn't investigated yet. He had to go -- he had to save Sam. It was the only thing that mattered.

\--

The building was abandoned and frankly terrifying when Dean screeched up to it -- he'd have to do a lot of TLC to his car after this -- but the main doors were exploded open and loose off their hinges and a thick trail led through the dust, of something being dragged. Mr. Harrison must have brought Sam here, to keep him trapped somewhere where he couldn't do anything to stop the ghost. He wouldn't try to cover his tracks if he thought Sam was working on his own, he guessed.

"The only time I'm ever thankful for dust," muttered Dean as he ran into the school, footsteps echoing against the high ceilings, the long empty corridors; the trail led to a door to an old office -- Mr. Harrison's, must have been. Dean ran in then stopped, because -- there was Sam, tied up and slumped in a corner, bruise bright on his cheek and eyes closed.

" _Sam_ ," he said, trying to scream in a whisper; it came out a rather strangled croak, and he was falling to his knees in front of Sam for the second times in as many days.

Sam stirred, opened his eyes. "Dean?"

Dean collapsed forward into him, forehead to Sam's chest. "Don't do this to me ever again," he said weakly, "you fucker."

Then he pulled his head up, feeling weak with relief, until they were nose to nose. "Hey," he said.

Sam grinned. "Hey," he said, "ow. Why does this keep happening to me?"

"Because you're clearly the inferior hunter," said Dean with a grin, even though he was pretty sure that wasn't quite true.

Sam smiled again. "Right."

"I thought you were dead, you know. It's Mr. Harrison, right? He's not gone? How are you not dead?"

Sam shrugged awkwardly, hands tied behind his back. Dean reached behind him to undo them. "I dunno," said Sam. "I think -- I think he's limited by the reason he's still here, you know? He has to play by his own rules; he can only kill for the reason he's stayed behind -- his ex-students. I don't fit the pattern, he can't kill me."

"He can do one hell of a fucking good knot, though," said Dean, frowning. "Seriously, he must been a boy scout before he was a bitter old man."

"Dean," said Sam, seriously, and Dean looked at him. "Dean -- do you -- I mean, are you--"

Dean smiled, then, and let go of the knot for a moment to put his hands on Sam's face and kiss him, enthusiastically. He pulled back and nodded. "I want you, I want this, I want everything. You were right, of course you were right, let's skip the part where I was an idiot, okay?"

Sam grinned, slow and real and happy, and looking like the memory -- the dream, younger and wholly happy. It was a good sight. "Fine with me," he said, and craned his head forward to kiss Dean again.

Dean was just getting into it when a chill of cold air swept the room.

"Dean," said Sam, panicked -- his eyes immediately went to over Dean's shoulder.

In a move that was, quite frankly, _awesome_ , Dean rolled over to where his bag was, tugged out the shotgun in one move, sprang to his feet and blew a load of salt out of the gun right into the silvery shaking scowling form of Mr. Harrison. The ghost disappeared in a swirling mass of smoke, and Dean crowed. "Take _that_ , you evil son of a bitch!" he shouted. The gun felt right and awesome in his hands, and he was so sure, now, in this rush of something too fierce and violent to be joy, but it was warm and true and exciting, that this was him, this was it, this was what defined him -- saving Sam and killing evil, two things that in a second defined him more than anything about his life at Sandover ever had. That time already felt indistinct and blurry in the face of this strong vivid streak of focus and _life_ running bright through him, making that time seem ridiculous and stupid and inexplicable, because that wasn't him. This was him. He felt awesome and alive and proud and giddy.

He flashed a look back at Sam. "That was awesome, right?"

Sam rolled his eyes and grinned right back.

\--

Castiel widened his eyes. "I didn't even have to help him with that shot, he did that all himself."

"And this situation, assuming the ghost was gone with the bones, is just regular Winchester dumbfuckery."

"They're getting closer to themselves, Zachariah. I mean, look at Dean, he's practically glowing with it. He's _found_ it -- he's almost shouting _Hey, I'm Dean Winchester!_ We should stop this now, it's not going to last much longer, and it could get messy if their memories break through on their own."

"I know, I know," said Zachariah irritably, "but they still don't know they're brothers -- we can't mess with that yet. Let them figure this out and have their whole -- reunion thing. Then I'll step in. Promise."

"Softie."

\--

"What's keeping him here, though?"

Dean frowned. "I have no idea! Something with his DNA--"

"It's not always DNA, though," said Sam. "I was reading up, it can sometimes be something that was important to them, or they _perceived_ to be part of them--"

"Let's get you out of those goddamn ropes first." Dean stepped forward and banged against the desk in the room with his hip and knocked over a stand of things behind it.

"Clumsy--" Sam started to say, and stopped as they both saw a carved wooden paddle clatter against the dusty floor.

They looked at each other, eyes wide. "Didn't the granddaughter say--"

Sam nodded. "Do it!"

The wind picked up again but Dean wasn't going to let Mr. Harrison do any more damage -- he grabbed accelerant and matches from his bag, doused the paddle, and threw the match on. It went up with a whoosh, and Dean turned to see Mr. Harrison appear just to burn up, curling in like paper, ghostly mouth stretched in a scream.

He whooped, grinned to hear Sam doing the same, then looked around -- the fire was spreading and they never had picked up that portable fire extinguisher.

"Penknife in my pocket," said Sam, and Dean waggled his eyebrows at him as he bent down and slipped his hand into Sam's front pocket and pulled it out; he cut the ropes and they ran hand-in-hand as the whole office caught; the whole building was going to go up pretty soon, Dean was sure.

\--

They ran into the damp woods south of the school and stood there, panting, hands still twined together. "I got to burn things _twice_ ," said Dean with a grin.

"Pyro," said Sam affectionately.

"Hey," said Dean, and Sam turned to him. "I'm pretty glad, you're, you know. Not dead."

Sam grinned. "Me too. Thanks, by the way, for the whole -- saving me thing."

"You do make a very fetching damsel in distress."

Sam leaned in and kissed him, until the rather unexpected sound of someone who was neither Dean nor Sam clearing their throat stopped him.

Two men were standing just across the clearing from them -- one was a guy in a rather wrinkled looking trenchcoat, and the other was -- Mr. _Adler_?

"Mr. Adler?" said Dean, because -- what?

Mr. Adler just smirked confusingly at him.

The guy in the trenchcoat looked determined. "As _fascinating_ as this has been, it has gone on long enough. Lesson most thoroughly learned, _fun_ had--" and he looked sternly at Mr. Adler then, for some reason, "and we all have more important things to be getting back to. Right?"

Mr. Adler sighed. "Right. It's been good times, though! You were truly entertaining."

"What the hell is going on?" demanded Sam, voice dipping down into that lower angry register that would have been rather exciting if Dean hadn't been so thoroughly confused.

Mr. Adler stepped closer -- Dean flinched away, but Mr. Adler just sighed and reached out with both hands, prodded them both on the forehead.

Dean shivered.

Zachariah turned back to Castiel. "Happy now?"

"What the _fuck_ ," said Dean. "No, seriously, you angelic assholes, what the _fuck_?"

Sam dropped Dean's hand rather quickly. "You think this is _funny_?" he demanded, still in that growl.

Zachariah shrugged. "A little."

"That's how you get your kicks? Making us -- run around like, like idiots, nearly -- getting ourselves killed -- making us--" Dean shut up abruptly, outrage prickling under his skin, but they clearly wanted him to say something about the -- the -- well, the _incest_ thing, and he wasn't giving them the fucking satisfaction.

"Yes, I did get a few -- kicks, from it. But, Dean, the -- ah, the initial point of this exercise was to remind you of who you are. All your whining about how hard your life is, and you find your way back to it every time. You're made to be a hunter. It's what you _are_. So suck it up, and do what you're meant for."

"Zachariah," hissed Castiel. "Look, we'll just -- be going. Okay. We'll catch up later, when, you know, apocalypse stuff. Let you two just--" He tugged on Zachariah's sleeve, and Zachariah sighed. Then they were gone, nothing but the echo of a flutter in the trees left behind.

Dean sat down on the damp ground. He was wearing jeans that he faintly remembered were designer. Dean Smith would not have liked him to get wet mud on them. Dean flopped his legs down purposefully to get them as dirty as possible. "What the fuck," he said, feeling a little lost.

"Um," said Sam. Only Sammy could fit that much awkwardness into one word. He looked up, and Sam looked -- sort of wrecked, mouth small and eyes tight. Like he'd looked in the motel room last night. Dean could remember everything in vivid detail -- everything he'd thought or felt or said. He looked at Sam and he could remember what the skin of his chest tasted like, the sounds he'd made while fucking into Dean, the sensation of his come landing on Dean's back.

He looked down at the ground. "You -- you know what the weirdest thing about all this is?"

Sam made a choked noise. "Let me guess," he said.

"My car. I mean, really, Sammy. A Prius? I was so proud of its fuel efficiency. I just -- I can't get over that. _Fuel efficiency_."

"Dean." Sam's voice was low, and Dean stood up, thinking they should probably be on the same level for this conversation. And if Sam wanted to take a swing at him for any reason, or anything, then, well, Dean's face would be in easy each. "Dean, don't deflect."

Dean looked over Sam's shoulder and swallowed. "I'm -- actually not. That was honestly weirder for me. Than. Um. You know. So. Take that how you want. We can never talk about this again, or you can, you know, call me wrong and gross, or we can, well, I don't know." He looked right at Sam then. "Just don't leave, or anything, I promise I won't--"

"You -- wait. Really? I mean, I -- really?"

Sam sounded less likely to go off on a fratricidal disgusted rampage and more -- something that Dean wasn't yet optimistic enough to call hopeful, but could be a close neighbor.

"I, ah, yeah. I mean. I guess what they were trying to do with all that was to show -- that I'd find my way back to hunting, that it's what I'm meant for. And it's true enough, I guess. But the thing that got me -- that always felt right -- it wasn't just, you know. Fighting evil and all that, like they kept harping on about, it was, I don't know. Shut up."

Sam's mouth was pulling up a bit in the corners, but he didn't say anything, just raised an eyebrow.

Dean sighed. "It was finding -- you. Doing it all with you."

"Doing it _all_ , huh?"

"That's not what I -- okay, well, it kinda was. This should feel a hundred times more fucked up than it does, you know."

Sam shrugged, still looking annoyingly pleased. "Basically you're saying we're destined to be together."

"Shut the fuck up, Sam," said Dean, but it was awful how kind of true that sounded. "Just, just never mention the Master Cleanse. Okay? Or the cucumber eye cream. I'll do anything."

Sam smirked, dirty and mischievous. "Anything, really?" Then he twisted his mouth thoughtfully. "Does amnesiac incest still count as a sin?"

Dean dropped his head into his hands. "Oh my god, Sam, I don't know." Then he looked up, trying not to appear too eager. "We're not -- I mean, it's not going to only ever be, uh, amnesiac?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Not now I know how much you like--"

"Shut the fuck up," said Dean again immediately, but he was honestly relieved. The memory of just how much he'd liked it was pretty damn clear.

Sam chuckled, then went quiet. They looked at each other for a moment, then Sam glanced away, biting his lip. "Dean," he said, suddenly serious.

"Yeah?"

"You -- this wasn't just about you learning a lesson. I learned a lot, too. Mainly that I'm apparently very insistent and stubborn," and he laughed a little as Dean nodded fervently, "--but also that, you know. You may find your way back to me, but I find my way back to you. Even when I didn't know who you really were, you were all that was on my mind. You were in my dreams, you were everything, I didn't want to hunt if it wasn't with you. I learned that -- it always needs to be you and me, you know? It's how we work, when we're together -- it's how we end up and it's how we always need to be."

Sam's face was intent, and it was so strange, for a second -- to see Sam there, his brother, overlaid with all the ways Dean Smith had seen him -- as a stranger, and a partner, as more, all coming together to just be -- Sam. "I -- I guess we do."

Sam nodded, face open and honest. "So -- so we need to be together on everything. I need to tell you some stuff."

\--

"What is happening here?" exclaimed Zachariah in distress.

"They appear to be talking to each other."

"Exactly! They're being honest and sharing things and working together! They're telling each other secrets and being supportive and understanding!"

"Well," said Castiel, "yes. I suppose they are."

"Look what you've _done_!"

" _Me_?" said Castiel slightly hysterically. "I'm the one who said you should have stopped this whole thing at the beginning! You insisted!"

"You should have stopped me, you -- you should have known--"

"How was I supposed to know?"

"This is disastrous, it was not meant to go like this, they were meant to be all--" Zachariah made a gesture that looked sort of spiky and unhappy. "This does not fit with any of my plans -- this is going to be the _worst_ apocalypse I've ever tried to put on, if it even -- I'll be the laughing stock--"

THE END


End file.
